


What Passing Bells

by lightgetsin, sahiya



Series: A Deeper Season [8]
Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Bujold
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, M/M, a deeper season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 17:00:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 106,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightgetsin/pseuds/lightgetsin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best laid plans . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to significantowl, jaimelesmaths, and AJ Hall for beta reading!

Ivan made his ImpSec driver set the lightflyer down about a block away from Vorkosigan House, and, as was his habit, ignored the imprecations of his paranoid shadows as he approached on foot. He could see the house from up the street; every light blazing, the garden a twinkling net of firefly glows outlining the scraggly, yet strangely beautiful, Barrayaran vegetation. Miles had wanted to hold his 34th birthday party entirely in the garden, which was finally finished after a year and a half of steady work on the part of that most intriguing widow friend of his. But Cordelia, who passed for a Vorkosigan Family Voice of Reason, had pointed out that mid-autumn was a bit chilly in Vorbarr Sultana.

He heard the press before he saw them, a gaggle of prole-types with holovid recorders standing about outside the gates, watching the comings and goings of some of the most important people on Barrayar. It made Ivan long for the old days, when Vor gatherings were for the Vor and not for mass prole consumption. One couldn't even get properly and traditionally drunk these days without seeing holos splashed all around town for the next week. And Miles, the rat, had called it _progress_ and encouraged Gregor to encourage it, and even used it himself for the purposes of his Grand Plan. And as the bloody Imperial Heir - and he still couldn't say exactly how _that_ had happened - Ivan spent far too much time staring down the business end of a holovid recorder these days.

Which was why he liked to walk into these things. No one expected the Imperial Heir to schlep himself in through the servants' entrance. Ivan turned up the nearest side street before the sharks could see him, heading for the back. He'd developed an extraordinary atlas of kitchen doors, scullery entrances, and generally d lassé modes of arrival and exit that he'd known very well once upon a time when he and Miles were kids, but hadn't had any use for since - right up till four years ago, that is. He ended up in the kitchen, snuck a steaming pastry off a tray in passing, and escaped upstairs before he could be noticed by the formidable Ma Kosti, who was busy directing her minions. He slipped into the ballroom through a servants' door, dismissed the agents (God knew the place was crawling with them already), and scanned the room. Miles, he could see, was holding court over by the hors d'oeuvres with some key players in the Progressive Party - Counts Dono Vorrutyer, René Vorbretten, and Henri Vorvolk. Ivan wasn't sure he wanted to go say happy birthday just yet; with that crowd he was certain to be drawn into whatever scheme they were currently concocting to give the Conservatives their long overdue fatal heart attacks. He did his best to keep clear of anything too awfully political. It was almost his duty as the Heir to the Imperium; wouldn't want anyone to go getting ideas, now, did he?

He scanned the room again for more promising company. His mother and Illyan were chatting with the Koudelkas. Ivan didn't particularly want to draw their attention just yet, either. Ah, there. Standing just this side of the huge French doors leading out to the garden was a stunning tableau: the female counterparts to Miles's political cronies, plus that lovely widow who had designed the garden, Madame Vorsoisson. Nearly four years now since the death of her husband during that mysterious case of Miles's, and still she hadn't remarried. A pity, really. A beautiful woman like her shouldn't be alone. Ivan snagged a glass of spiced wine and made his way over.

"Good evening, ladies," he said, smoothly inserting himself in between Countess Olivia Vorrutyer and Madame Vorsoisson. "Are you all enjoying yourselves?"

"Oh yes," Tatya Vorbretten said. "We were just talking about how beautiful Ekaterin's garden is."

"It's not my garden," she said quickly. "It's Lord Vorkosigan's. I just did what he asked with it."

"Well, it is lovely," Ivan said, swept up her hand, and kissed it. "Much like its designer."

"Er . . ." she said, and was - unfortunately - unable to reply properly because Miles's voice at its very driest said from behind Ivan, "Thank you, Ivan. So glad you're enjoying the garden."

Ivan could have growled. Instead he let go of Madame Vorsoisson's hand and turned to face his cousin. "Good evening, ladies," Miles said, bowing to them. "I hope you don't mind if I borrow my feckless cousin for a few minutes."

"Not at all," Olivia said, with a bit too much enthusiasm. Ivan glared at her. "We're going to go take a walk, aren't we, girls?"

"We'd like our husbands back at some point, though. If you don't mind, Miles," Tatya added.

"When the dancing starts," Miles assured them, and the four women moved off into the garden together, figures pleasantly outlined in torchlight.

Ivan opened his mouth to berate his cousin for interrupting what could have been a very enjoyable conversation, but Miles beat him to it. "Don't even start, Ivan. You remember what I said about Madame Vorsoisson."

"Four years ago!" Ivan said indignantly. "I think I've given it plenty of time, don't you?"

Miles regarded him. "Perhaps. Depends on what you're after. She's not one to mess around with, you know. She has a son and a career ahead of her. And . . ." He grimaced and stepped closer. "Between you and me, her first marriage was a horror show."

"

What business is it of yours, anyway?" Ivan demanded, nettled. Dammit, Miles had Gregor, didn't he? What did he care about Ivan's sex life?

Miles shrugged. "I like her. She's a very brave woman. And I think she's brilliant at what she does, too. She only has a semester left at the university and then - well, I think she'll be able to pick and choose her garden commissions, or even go on to train in terraforming if she wants. In any case, I thought I'd extend a friendly word of caution. If you're ready to grow up . . . fine. I wish you all the luck in the world. If not . . . for her sake, please pick someone else to entertain yourself with."

Ivan bit back a sharp reply. He hated it when Miles was right, as he so infuriatingly often was. Even Ivan knew that no one would get anywhere with the reserved widow by being suave and flattering. That much was obvious to anyone with half a brain; if it were any different, she wouldn't be here without an escort tonight.

"Anyway," Miles continued, "that wasn't why I wanted to talk to you."

Ivan abruptly noticed that they were drifting back towards the food, and the Counts Miles had been conferencing with earlier. "Miles . . ." he said warningly.

"Ah, Ivan, good to see you," Dono Vorrutyer said with menacing cheer, and Ivan was trapped. Mired in politics, like he'd been since the day he was born, despite his best efforts. "I think he'd be a good one to have standing up there, too," Dono added to René. "Put his support as Heir behind it."

"That's exactly what I was thinking," Miles said.

"And just where am I standing this time?" Ivan asked with a sigh. "Got a banner you need propping up again?" He helped himself to a plate of colorful and undoubtedly delicious Ma Kosti snacks, and finished off his first glass of wine with an undignified gulp.

"We're trying to launch a campaign to clean up the eastside," René said.

"Ha, good luck." Ivan snagged another glass of wine off a passing tray.

"No, I think it's really going to happen this time," Miles said. "It didn't work before because there wasn't any money, but after Lord Vormoncrief died last year, the coffers might just be ready to open for this."

"Too bad someone had to die first," René said grimly.

"Loads of people have died," Miles corrected. "Count Vormoncrief's son was just the first one the Council couldn't ignore."

"Oh," said Ivan, blinking over a cream puff. "You mean that's really what happened to him? I thought it was just a rumor." He'd known the man in passing; one of By Vorrutyer's familiars, if Ivan wasn't mistaken. Which was odd, because By's crowd drank its weight in wine on a weekly basis, but they were hardly known for more intensive chemical recreation. "What was he doing?" he asked, morbidly curious.

Miles sighed. "A new import called Jump Juice. It does the usual: cosmic understanding, heightened sensations, etc. No different from a dozen other galactic drugs. It's supposed to be rather like a wormhole jump is for a pilot, though, thus the name."

Ivan raised his eyebrows. "I hadn't heard that."

"Well, we're not exactly advertising it," Miles said. "We're trying to make it _less_ appealing. That's not the most dangerous thing about it, anyway. It just burns people right out. Withdrawal is almost as dangerous as overdosing."

"That's what happened to Vormoncrief's son," Dono said with a sigh. "His family finally got him into detox and then . . ." He shook his head. "Byerly was quite upset." Ivan followed Dono's gaze and saw Byerly Vorrutyer, wearing his usual outlandish town-clown garb and talking animatedly with the son of Minister Drade of Civil Defense. Byerly was smiling and gesturing with his wine glass, and he didn't _look_ all that upset.

"Anyway," Miles said, "when we start cleaning it up, there'll be some sort of public ceremony, with the Counts who shoved the bill through." He gestured around. "And Gregor, to show his personal support for the project. And yourself."

"Do I have to do anything except just stand there?" Ivan asked suspiciously.

"No," Miles assured him airily.

"Fine then." Ivan heaved a great, put-upon sigh. "Let me know when and where, as usual. You've talked to Gregor about this already, I assume."

"Not in detail. But he approves." Miles took a sip of his wine, probably to mask the fact that he was scanning the room continually. Ivan rolled his eyes, wondering if it were as transparent to anyone else.

"Is Gregor here tonight?"

"Yes, of course. He needed to speak to my parents for a few minutes. They should be - ah, there they are. Excuse me." Gregor, along with the Count and Countess, had just entered the ballroom. Miles managed to insert himself at Gregor's side before anyone else had even noticed his quiet entrance.

The Counts drifted back to their wives now that Miles was through with them. Astonishing, really, how fast the little bugger had taken over the running of the Progressive Party, considering most of his career up until four years ago had been almost completely hidden from public view. Even after his days in covert ops had ended, his various cases as an Auditor had been mostly too sensitive to be used to bolster his general reputation. But now . . . Miles was about as public a figure as it was possible to be. And far too disturbingly political, at that. Ivan winced, wondering what circus he'd just agreed to be a main attraction at.

Perhaps now would be a good time to go find Madame Vorsoisson, since Miles was sufficiently distracted. Ivan started towards the garden, but hadn't gone three steps before an all too familiar voice drawled, "Ah, Lord Ivan."

Ivan sighed again. "Hello, By."

Byerly Vorrutyer sketched him a bow. "Going for a walk in the garden? Mind if I join you?"

_Yes_. Ivan opened his mouth to say just that, but By quirked an eyebrow at him and Ivan, reminded that while Byerly was certainly a town-clown, that wasn't all he was, decided against it. He could always lose By outside. "Not at all," Ivan said, only a little grudgingly.

"Excellent." The two of them made their way into the garden. Ivan hadn't seen it up close before, and he had to admit, gazing around at the vegetation and the quiet brook burbling over and around stones he knew to be taken from the Vorkosigan District, that it was very pretty indeed. _Brilliant at what she does_, Miles had said. How . . . interesting, for a Vor woman to have something that she actually _did_. Ivan wasn't sure he had ever dated a woman with a career, unless he counted the very practice of high Vor female existence. But then, Madame Vorsoisson wasn't high Vor. But she did have impeccable taste, Ivan thought, catching a glimpse of the widow, walking on a different path with Delia Koudelka-Galeni and her husband Duv. Madame Vorsoisson's dress was not expensive, his experienced eye assessed, but it suited her perfectly.

"Good luck," By said, interrupting Ivan's thoughts.

"What?" Ivan asked, glancing back at him sharply.

Byerly gestured after Madame Vorsoisson and the Galenis, disappearing up the path. "Madame Vorsoisson has turned down half the men in Vorbarr Sultana in the last four years."

Ivan had heard something to that effect. "Playing hard to get, is she?"

"Mmm," By said. "In my opinion, she might genuinely not want to be got. Can't really blame her either, with the Vor bore types who have been chasing after her." Byerly started leading Ivan to a deserted part of the garden.

"What do you want, By?" Ivan asked without preamble.

"I wanted to put a word in your cousin's ear," Byerly said, and seated himself on an elegantly carved wooden bench. Ivan sat down next to him and suppressed the urge to sigh. Why was he always the messenger? "Two cousins, actually."

Ivan raised an eyebrow at this. "Get on with it, will you?"

"All right, all right," Byerly said with a sigh. "No sense of the dramatic," he grumbled under his breath.

"By, with _Miles_ as my cousin, do you really think that _I_ need to have any sense of the dramatic?"

"Ah. Point well taken." By smiled briefly, but then turned serious and leaned in. "You've heard the rumors about Gregor, I assume."

Ivan pulled back and glared. "Is that what this is about? By, everyone has heard the rumors about Gregor." Gregor, who was thirty-nine now and still unmarried, and who had named Ivan as his heir four years ago, indicating to all who cared to see that he had no intention of marrying any time soon. Gregor, who had refused to escort any Vor beauties for years now, and dodged all questions of romance in his rare interviews. The secret of Gregor and Miles's relationship might be well kept, Ivan reflected, but the secret of Gregor's preferences was much less so. Not that anyone really dared to say it out loud.

Well, not to his face, anyway.

"Yes, but not everyone is as observant as I am. Or as . . . inclined to be observant about certain things."

Ivan almost stopped breathing. "What things?" he managed.

By waved an airy hand. "Oh, relax. They're very careful. Flawless, in fact. I honestly had no idea what I was looking at until - well." He paused, swallowed. "I can keep an ear out, if they'd like. That's why I'm talking to you."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ivan said reflexively.

Byerly smiled. "Of course not." He stood up. "I'll leave you to your lovely widow now, Ivan." He sketched a retreating bow and ambled back up the path, his gait somewhat unsteadier than Ivan remembered it being on their way out.

Ivan sat for a minute, thinking, quite simply, _Shit_. He could hear voices coming up the path, and then Delia's familiar silvery peal of laughter. He wondered if he needed to find Miles and Gregor right now, or if he could take advantage of the fine opportunity that was about to present itself. He could attach himself to their group, perhaps persuade Madame Vorsoisson to come inside and dance with him. Show her that he wasn't a Vor bore like every other twit who'd spent the last four years panting after her. And after that he could catch Miles and Gregor. It really wasn't anything that wouldn't keep.

By the end of the evening, Ivan was in rather a foul mood. Madame Vorsoisson had consented to one dance, and one dance only with him. And it had been a mirror dance, too, and thus involved no physical contact whatsoever. Physical contact was Ivan's specialty. He'd caught Miles's gaze on him afterwards. His cousin had shaken his head at him as if to say, _What am I going to do with you_? Madame Vorsoisson had danced the rest of the night with men who were safely and happily married - and, Ivan noted with a scowl, _several_ times with Miles, who was certainly not married. Was she perhaps nursing a crush? Was that why she had turned down every eligible Vor bachelor in the capital? But they were both unfailingly polite and platonic, Ivan decided after covert observation. Perhaps it was just that Miles was her friend, and so he was safe?

And then she left early, before midnight even. Ivan sighed, and danced the rest of the night with his female acquaintances, all now depressingly married.

The party began slowly winding down around two in the morning. Miles worked the room expertly as he said good-bye to people. Ivan watched with a sardonic eye. These things just weren't as much fun anymore, he reflected. Miles was constantly schmoozing, which was rather disturbing to watch because he was unnaturally good at it. Ivan could see glimmers of the little Admiral whenever Miles turned on the charm for some recalcitrant Count or another.

Ivan caught up to him as he was making his final rounds. "I need to talk to you," he muttered.

Miles raised an eyebrow. "I'll be done here in just a minute. Wait for me in the library?"

Ivan nodded and went dutifully off. He found Gregor in the library already, examining the books distractedly. "Good evening, Sire," Ivan said.

"Ah, Ivan. Are you hiding too?"

"Not exactly, no. Just waiting for Miles to finish getting everything he wanted out of his guests now that he's filled them up with Vorkosigan wine."

"Speak of the devil," Gregor murmured, lips turning up as Miles strode in. Just looking at him, still vibrant and crackling with energy after the long night, made Ivan want to yawn. Miles had been the center of attention for hours. He thrived on that sort of thing, and it would be days before he was bearable again.

"What a smashing evening," Miles proclaimed, flinging himself into an armchair with vigor. "And I don't just mean Count Vordovon - the man really must stop drinking so much in public."

"It was a good birthday, then?" Gregor asked, leaning back against a shelf.

"Oh yes," Miles said instantly. "Mind you, I still think it would have been better with a few dozen Dendarii hillmen and as many gallons of maple mead, but you can't have everything." He smiled reflectively. "Now there are some people who know how to throw a party."

"Your thirtieth, was that?" Gregor said. He and Miles shared one of their looks, a lightning fast exchange of perfectly normal expressions, which somehow managed to leave the impression of something very weighty in the room. The two of them were like that, Ivan reflected, watching them. Maybe out of necessity, or maybe just preference; a little of both, he rather thought. Like an iceberg, the two of them were, not much showing, leaving those who knew where to look with the impression of something stunningly massive hidden away beneath the surface. They were very, very good at sliding through below the level of perception, of fooling even those who knew into forgetting. And then, with just one flicker of Miles's fingers on Gregor's sleeve, or one of Gregor's tiny hand-over-heart bows, you were surprised all over again. Which reminded him . . .

"Er," Ivan said uncomfortably. "About tonight . . ."

"This isn't about Madame Vorsoisson again, is it?" Miles said, boots sliding off the table with a thump. "Because I've already told you -"

"No," Ivan said hastily. "It's not." Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gregor twitch. That had to sting, Ivan reflected, even after the fact. A few nasty rumors, more innuendo than anything, had made the rounds in the months following Miles's return from Komarr and his continued association with the newly widowed Ekaterin Vorsoisson. Ivan himself hadn't known what to make of their friendship. Miles had explained it away as a genuine liking for the woman, and a wish to see her happy and well in her new life. Ivan hadn't been present for whatever discussion of the matter had passed between Gregor and Miles, but the upshot was, well, absolutely nothing. Miles had simply smiled in the face of the gossip and continued on as before, seemingly unperturbed. Madame Vorsoisson, after some initial unease, followed his lead. Gregor, of course, maintained an aloof neutrality, and eventually the talkers stopped talking. What must it be like to have to hide so much, so long? "It's not about that," Ivan said, clasping his hands behind his back. "Er, well. I talked to Byerly Vorrutyer, you see. He wanted me to tell you that he, well, er . . ."

"Spit it out," Miles said impatiently.

"Knows about the two of you," Ivan said hastily, then shut his mouth.

There was a pause. Miles crossed one booted ankle over his knee and drummed his fingers rhythmically on the polished heel.

"Because of the rumors," Ivan said into the silence, waving vaguely at Gregor. "You know, about . . ."

"Oh yes," said Miles distantly. "Byerly Vorrutyer. What did he want?"

"Nothing, as far as I know," Ivan said, shrugging. "He was offering his services, actually, to keep an ear out for you, if you like."

Miles snorted. "God save me from amateurs," he said, with the sort of covert ops snobbery that made Ivan want, very, very briefly, to have a few adventures of his own to look back on. Not that Ivan thought it'd really matter. By wasn't an amateur, and, much as Ivan hated to admit it, the fact that so many people misjudged him was actually evidence of his considerable skill.

Gregor stirred. "Miles," he said slowly. "Do you think . . ."

"No," Miles said. "No. It's not time yet."

For a moment it seemed as if that would be the end of that, but then Gregor took a quick breath. "Why not?" he asked.

Miles made a helpless strangling noise. "Because it's not," he said.

"I'm beginning to see the flaw in your great plan," Gregor said mildly. "It leaves the exact moment of truth unspecified. To be forever postponed and postponed and postponed again."

Miles straightened in his chair, breath hissing between his teeth. He visibly swallowed the first few things that came to his lips, and finally settled on a neutral, "Getting impatient?"

"How could I when I have everything I really want?" Gregor shrugged a bit ruefully. "Let's call it greedy in my old age." His voice took on the faintest edge of pleading. "But androgenesis has been available on Barrayar for over two years now. The number of children is creeping up into the hundreds. Your political standing has never been better." He paused, but Miles did not respond. "But we will wait," Gregor said at last. "If it pleases you."

"It doesn't," Miles said, standing and pacing uneasily. "You think I don't want - if it's too soon, we could lose everything."

"Is that what you're afraid of?" Gregor asked gently, and Ivan didn't know why, but he had the impression of those words snapping between them like the edge of a drawn blade.

Miles halted in his pacing and bared his teeth. Ivan considered slinking for the door. "Don't dare me," Miles said lowly. "I don't tend to react . . . moderately to it."

Gregor smiled, startlingly open in the moment of tension. "Why do you think I do it?" He sighed and shrugged minutely. "But I do apologize."

Miles let his breath out, took two steps, and sank back into the chair. "Damn," he said, brushing a hand over his face. He looked up at Gregor again. "I'm sorry, too."

Ivan covertly let out his breath. He was, he supposed, Miles's closest confidante when it came right down to it. He knew they'd disagreed more than once in the past four years, apart from that most spectacular occasion that had sent Miles haring off to Sergyar that very first spring. But Ivan had never witnessed it himself, and he had absolutely no desire to. It was a deeply terrifying prospect. But the two of them seemed to be of one mind on so very many things, or perhaps more accurately of compatible mind, and this strange point of tension was news to Ivan. How long had Gregor been chafing, and why wasn't Miles?

"I'll have a word or two with my might-have-been cousin," Miles added, making a face. "Set him straight on a few points."

"And I'll leave it in your capable hands," Gregor said, glancing up to the chrono. "I should go." He crossed the room to lean over Miles, and Ivan turned away. He could still hear them murmuring goodnights, Gregor's soft laugh, the squeak of the furniture as Miles knelt up to reach him. _If they can survive hiding like this for so long and only grow more together with each year, they can survive Miles's moment of truth_, he thought, and felt only a small twinge of unease.


	2. Chapter 2

It was snowing when Miles awoke the morning of the eastside ceremony. He lingered in his sitting room, still in the old ship-knits he slept in, sipping his coffee and trying to figure out if it was going to turn into a blizzard or remain a pleasant flurry. He'd been a weather officer once upon a time, after all. The sky looked a bit lighter in the north, he thought optimistically, and he pulled on a pair of old, threadbare trousers to go have breakfast with his parents.

"Good morning," his mother greeted, in her unholy morning person voice. His father, settling uneasily into true retirement on the stringent orders of his doctors, wasn't down just yet. It was strange to have them home, even now, six months after their return from Sergyar. Nice, but strange. He'd thought he might chafe under it - after all, he hadn't lived with his parents since he was eighteen - but they were excellent at giving him space. They always had been, come to think of it, even when it had probably scared the living daylights out of them to do so. He was finding that,, the further he got from his own youth, the sorrier he generally felt for his parents.

"Good morning," he said, dutifully accepting her maternal kiss. "Da still sleeping?

"He'll be down in a bit," the Countess said. Pym poured her a cup of tea, and handed Miles his second cup of black coffee. "I was thinking about coming to the ceremony today. Would that be all right with you?"

"Yes, of course," Miles said. He paused, watching her blow on her steaming tea. "I wish Da could come, too."

The Countess frowned sympathetically. "He understands, you know. Actually," she added, "it's a remarkably good excuse to keep him from taking too much on, now that we're back."

"I suppose," Miles said with a sigh. He picked at his groats for a moment, brooding uncomfortably. It had been difficult for his father to disappear almost completely from the public eye, especially with the media explosion. The Count wasn't a public figure simply by birth - it was a vocation and passion by now. Dampening that vital presence for purposes of promoting his own still left a bitter taste in Miles's mouth.

But if he and Gregor went public, it might not be necessary anymore. He winced to think of it. Gregor hadn't so much as alluded to the idea since his birthday, and Miles had followed his lead, unable to find the proper words. _It's not for lack of feeling, damn it, you know that. It's just that I'm - I'm_ -

"Everything all right, love?" his mother asked mildly.

"Yes," Miles said, but then he decided, _What the hell?_ and added, "Gregor wants to go public. Now, I mean. We sort of . . . we didn't argue about it, exactly, but we had a bit of a . . . policy disagreement."

The Countess sipped her tea, concealing her expression behind her cup. "What are your objections?"

"I - I don't think it's time yet. And if we do it too quickly . . . well, you can imagine the results."

"I have, in fact," the Countess said grimly. "Many times. I'm glad that you're being cautious. For once in your life." She paused. "But I do see Gregor's point, especially as his preferences have been a matter of public discourse for some time now."

"Which has thrilled him to no end, I can tell you."

"Also," said the Countess dryly, "he's rather taken with you."

"Yeah," said Miles, slumping. It wasn't as if he didn't know; he'd woken that very morning alone, the same as Gregor, and wondered as he always did these days what it would be like not to. He'd known that this is how it would have to be - the internal pulse of their relationship must by necessity be drowned by the greater ticking of Barrayar's slower clock.

"It's not the content of the talk that upsets him, you know," the Countess said unexpectedly.

"I'm sorry?"

"Gregor." She began segmenting an orange, arranging the pieces in a blossom on her plate. "He isn't bothered that people think he's homosexual. He's bothered that they're prying into his personal business. There is a difference."

She was right; Gregor did not suffer much from what the Countess called the "delicate Barrayaran male ego." It was only his carefully guarded sense of personal privacy that rebelled at the talk. Not that the gossip would lessen after they made the announcement, or improve measurably in accuracy, but at least then they'd have the sensation of moving forward.

Miles squirmed, flushing uncomfortably as his mother looked studiously down at her orange. "Timing is everything here," he said, voice perhaps too abrupt. "I don't want to have come this far to screw it up by jumping the gun."

"Mmm," the Countess said neutrally.

"It's not that I don't want to do it," he said, setting down his spoon.

"Did I say that it was?"

"No, you didn't. Gregor . . ."

"Ah."

"Not in so many words, but . . ."

"No," she said, "he wouldn't. Tell me, what would it take to make this all right with you? What is it that you're waiting for?"

Miles shrugged. "Being politically invulnerable, I guess. Not that that is ever going to happen, no one is politically invulnerable, not even Gregor. Barring that, having public opinion so firmly on our side that no one can say anything. That's . . . probably just as likely. We both have our political enemies, but generally speaking Gregor and I are well-liked figures -"

"Very well-liked figures," his mother interjected.

"- but something like this will be hard for most people to swallow." Miles slouched. "I'm not going to get a best-case scenario. I'm only going to get a better case scenario, I think. Perhaps now _is_ the time."

"Well, kiddo," the Countess said, "I can't tell you what to do. But you know that you have your father's and my fullest support at all times."

"Thanks." Miles straightened. "I should go get dressed."

"Eat first," his mother said firmly, pointing at his mostly untouched groats.

Miles grumbled, and ate his groats. By the time he was done his father had wandered downstairs, and Miles stayed to chat with both of them about nothing in particular. Da looked a little fatigued, Miles thought critically, though he ate well enough. Miles still wasn't sure what he thought about this full-retirement thing his father was attempting. It was either a very good idea . . . or a very bad one. Hard to say just yet. His parents had been spending a great deal of time at Vorkosigan Surleau, though they'd come down for his birthday party and stayed, because the house at the long lake was just a bit too isolated in winter.

They double-teamed him, as they were wont to do, keeping him at the table through another cup of coffee with some amusing chatter about mutual acquaintances. Miles hardly minded - he was scheduled to depart for Komarr early the next day as part of Gregor's entourage for the quadrennial re-negotiation of Barrayar and Komarr's economic relationship. He wasn't going to be having many relaxing, leisurely breakfasts for the next month, at least.

Finally, about half an hour later than he had anticipated, Miles went upstairs to dress in his house uniform augmented with a few of the more impressive military decorations, carefully selected from the pile in his dresser. He lingered for a moment over the open drawer, distracted by the stack of cream-colored envelopes that lay bound up in no particular order next to the medals. They were sealed in every conceivable color, though most frequently it was a dry rust brown impressed over the Vorbarra rose and olive branch.

Miles should perhaps not have been very surprised to discover that Gregor was a letter-writer. Miles himself had no such inclination, since his handwriting was atrocious and his patience rather lacking. He'd written Gregor perhaps three letters in the last four years, all of which fell into the category of "abject apology." But he always got a thrill out of the sight of a Vorbarra Armsman appearing unexpectedly, an envelope in his hand and a slight, knowing smile on his face. Miles had kept every letter and reread most of them half a dozen times; he thought that someday they might leave them to their children.

Well, some of the letters, anyway.

But there was no time today to linger, so he shut the drawer and turned his attention back to his appearance. He examined himself in the mirror, noting with consternation the slight silvering of his dark hair at the temples. Well, he was thirty-four now. He didn't think it counted as prematurely gray. Besides, it made him look . . . distinguished. Or something.

He arrived early at the Star Bridge, which was to be their staging ground. Gregor's security people were already underfoot, though the man himself was not yet present. Ivan hadn't arrived either, though Miles _trusted_ he would be on time. Some of the Counts were already on hand, however: Henri Vorvolk, Ren Vorbretten, Dono Vorrutyer, and - in a rare Conservative-Progressive alliance - Count Vormoncrief, who wore his House blacks today. They were standing in a huddle, talking and trying to ignore the gaggle of reporters in attendance. Their Armsmen milled around them, creating a colorful tableau against the gray of the stone bridge and the frosty river.

Miles made his way over, and the cameras abruptly switched to him. He swallowed, only slightly daunted, and gave the press a wave. Pym shot them a suspicious look and put himself between them and Miles.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Miles said. "Lovely weather we've got." It was, too. The morning's flurry had vanished and the sky was clear and blue. Only after he'd spoken did he catch the harried looks on his Progressive colleagues' faces. "What?" he asked.

"I will say what I like," Vormoncrief said, as though Miles were not there. "My son is dead, and I know the reason, even if others may fool themselves into thinking otherwise. I will not be silenced on this issue." With that, he turned on his heal and strode over to - _oh dear_ \- talk to the press.

Miles had the uncomfortable feeling of walking in on the tail end of a tense conversation. "What was that about?" he asked quietly, though he could guess.

"Our speeches. Vormoncrief's is . . ." Dono shook his head, obviously exasperated beyond words.

"Galactic decadence," Henri recited with a sigh, "cultural pollution, poisoning our youth, our future, our values, et cetera, et cetera. Not what we wanted this to be about."

Miles sighed. "No, but unsurprising, considering the source."

"We thought we might try and get him to tone it down a bit," René said. "He reacted . . . badly to our suggestions."

"Nothing to be done about it," Miles said on a sigh. "But bury it, that is. René, you go first. Then Dono, then Vormoncrief. Henri, would you like to go before or after me?"

"Before, if you don't mind. This is your show. Are Gregor and Ivan speaking?"

"A bit at the end," Miles said. "Ivan first, then Gregor." He glanced over at Vormoncrief and blew out a long breath. "We should get over there, too. We don't want him to be the only one with quotes in this evening's newsvid."

The ceremony was scheduled to start at 1500; by ten minutes before, the spectator areas on both sides of the river were full. Miles could see several other Counts in attendance, conspicuously grouped in segregated enclaves among the proles. Minister Drade of the Department of Civil Defense was set to open the speeches, and a number of his lackeys were also observing. And then there was everyone else with a stake in today's events, or perhaps just a taste for imperial spectacle.

Miles eye slid over a cluster of women on the near side of the bridge, standing in a loose, silent circle, many holding hands. They didn't carry signs, as Miles had worried they might, but wore black ribbons in token to the children they had lost to overdose or recovery. Countess Vormoncrief, accompanied by an Armsman, joined them.

Ivan arrived in an ImpSec groundcar with the precision timing of an operation designed to get the subject in and out as quickly as possible. Gregor arrived last. Allegre, running security for him, looked only moderately tense as the Emperor exited the groundcar and made his way onto the bridge. Miles could appreciate the security issues involved in an outdoor event like this; ImpSec's presence was unusually visible and lurking. _Don't even try it_, they seemed to say.

Promptly at 1500, Gregor gave the signal to start.

*~*~*

It was impossible not to see the contrast, Gregor thought, glancing from right to left. The choice of venue for this event had been Miles's idea, and he could not have come up with anything more pointed. To the west, the crisp lines of an upscale shopping district spread along the riverbank and up the boulevard that fed into the bridge. Well-tended trees stood in regimented rows along the pavements, perfectly manicured branches glittering with a light coating of snow. To the east of the bridge the boulevard shrank precipitously to a width barely sufficient to allow passage of a small groundcar. It was uncomfortably crowded by low, gray buildings, once tidy but now neglected. The people on that side of the river stood silent, most poorly dressed to combat the chill in the air. Gregor could remember the clean-up effort on the old Caravansurai, only a few years before his majority and formal assumption of powers. It had been an effort of Herculean proportions, and all of that for it to spring up again, like a cancer that you could excise, but never quite cure. He wondered why some of those people had come. Curiosity? Boredom? Fear?

It didn't matter. This show wasn't really for them, anyway. It was for the people who were selling them Jump Juice and Crystal Jolt and all the rest, along with subsequent lives of addiction, prostitution, dissipation, and violence.

The measured, careful cadences of Edward Drade's voice shifted, and Gregor schooled himself to attention. He did not have much to do here today except stand around and look determined and say a few words at the end, but this, of all things on his schedule today, deserved attention. They'd talked about it for nearly a year, and gotten nowhere at all until Gaerard Vormoncrief realized his life was a mess and died trying to fix it. It had been deeply satisfying to watch the absent-minded disdain in the Council of Counts evaporate into startled alarm.

Drade concluded, and René Vorbretten stepped forward, the first of Miles's cadre to speak. Unconsciously, Gregor's eye flicked sideways, seeking the small, upright figure in brown and silver. Miles stood straight and still at attention at the edge of the speaker's platform, eyes studiously on René. Gregor amused himself for a few moments, trying to guess just what Miles was thinking. It was a futile exercise, and he gave it up.

The speeches were mercifully short and, with the exception of Count Vormoncrief's, uniformly upright and forward-focused. Gregor had a few nasty moments while Vormoncrief spoke. The man should say what he pleased; he'd lost a child to that hell concoction. But that didn't make it any less irritating. Miles went last of the Counts, equally brief and to the point. After only a few moments he turned the podium over to Ivan, who had been rather annoyed, Gregor remembered, at having to say anything at all. Gregor's own speechwriter had prepared his short statement. His speech, like the Counts before him, met with polite applause from those to the west of the bridge, and sullen, hollow-eyed silence from those to the east.

Ivan stepped back, bowing the podium to Gregor. Gregor moved forward, found an appropriate smile, spoke a few brief words, and signaled a start.

From up the boulevard came the sound of five hundred pairs of highly polished Barrayaran uniform boots. Gregor waited at attention, head cocked for the first glimpse. And here they came, five abreast and perfectly turned out, the cream of the crop of Vorbarr Sultana's municipal guard. The crowd on the boulevard gave way before them, and they mounted the arch of the bridge without missing a beat. Gregor nodded acknowledgement to each line of men as they passed below him, returning their salutes and making eye contact where he could. After several minutes the last group passed, and a minute after that stepped off the bridge into what had, with astounding rapidity in the past half decade, become enemy territory. The watchers on the east side of the river, obviously alarmed, had melted away long ago.

It was, of course, an almost entirely symbolic gesture. The real clean-up was a lot more involved than sending in a mass of parade-ready municipals, trained more for controlling street brawls and catching pickpockets than busting drug trafficking rings. The real work was complicated and multi-layered, stretching from the civil intelligence fellows doing their quiet investigating to Drade and his financial wizards to the municipals making the arrests and deciding who was perpetrator and who victim, to the hundreds of hospital beds waiting, free of charge, in clinics around the city. That, combined with a carefully orchestrated public opinion campaign and more money than Gregor quite believed, and they would reclaim a few tiny square miles of old Vorbarr Sultana streets where the addicted, the desperate, the dying, and the simply greedy had congregated, like dead leaves at the mouth of a drain.

And then it was over. Gregor's glance crossed Allegre's, and the man nodded and beckoned him on. Gregor stepped down onto the bridge, waiting as his escort formed up around him. Miles, with practiced ease, inserted himself at his right, and they moved off along the bridge in step.

"Well," Miles said. "That went all right."

"That part, anyway," Gregor said, glancing ahead to where the spectators stood, crowded against short metal barricades to hold the boulevard clear for him. His groundcar waited a few lengths up the street, regrettably past the still hovering reporters. Cordelia had laughed when he'd told her that he found the new trend towards holo broadcasting everything he did unnerving, and then apologized for not better preparing him when he was a child.

"It's really quite amusing to watch all the old Vor panicking over it," she had said, eyes sparkling maliciously. "They're afraid of being found out for the boring, often provincial people they are -"

"- don't forget drunk," Miles had put in irreverently.

Gregor did his best, but it still felt odd to have to address a phalanx of cameras after every public appearance. The organized news media had been flourishing on Barrayar, spreading like wildfire to fill the sudden need as comconsoles and links made their way to the most remote parts of the planet, to people who had never had news before and suddenly found they wanted it. The semiannual official broadcasts at Midsummer and Winterfair had been more than overshadowed by independent coverage of everything from what was debated in the Council of Counts to who went to which parties in Vorbarr Sultana to what Gregor liked to eat for breakfast (why they cared, he still didn't know). Miles called it useful, and intellectually Gregor had to agree with him. Events like today's, designed to be viewed and not just internally experienced, were unheard of in his grandfather Ezar's reign. But that didn't stop it from feeling damn strange.

"Come back to the Residence with me?" he asked, glancing down at Miles.

"Yes, Sire," Miles said, eyes sparking.

They stepped from the bridge to the paving stones, and Gregor swerved a bit to walk along the barricades and exchange greetings with the citizenry of Vorbarr Sultana. Miles stayed with him, quiet but at ease as they paced slowly along. Holos and videos of them walking together were so common as to be unremarkable, Gregor knew. The thought was deeply satisfying. But how much more satisfying would it be when - no. He stopped that thought mid-flow. Not now. If Miles didn't - not now.

"Here we go," Miles murmured, barely audible over the crowd. Gregor glanced up and suppressed a wince. The press awaited them, the last barrier before the quiet of the groundcar.

He didn't see all of what happened next. His eyes were on the members of the press, cameras at the ready, and he was only subliminally aware of Allegre, a proper three paces behind and to the right, signaling his men forward and moving himself to close in ahead of Gregor. He exchanged one last nod and smile with a gruff, work-stained man in construction garb, and turned to pick up the pace himself.

One of the reporters broke from their prescribed group, and Gregor's escort shifted forward to intercept. The barrier rattled, faint over the noise of the crowd. Gregor glanced back, peripherally registering that he seemed to be the only one to have heard. A man had leapt the barrier not half a dozen paces away and was coming for him at a dead run. Gregor had a confused impression of a hollow, ravaged face, wildly rolling eyes, teeth bared in a triumphant smile. Gregor's hands came up, reflexive defense after so many years of training for just this occasion - no one had ever gotten this close - where were Allegre and -

Miles stepped neatly in front of him, turning to take the man down over his shoulder. Gregor didn't even have time to move forward before the man hit at a sprint. Miles ducked under him, then straightened, and there was a flurry of thin, raggedly dressed limbs and then a thud as the attacker landed flat on his back on the paving stones. Only Gregor heard Miles's small, barely distinguishable grunt, and he thought for a wild moment as a veritable wave of stunner fire flattened the attacker to the pavement before he could rise again that it was over, that they were fine. But then Miles staggered, a frown creasing his face and a hand rising to prod uncertainly at his ribs. He took a breath, then coughed, and Gregor's gut clenched at the sight of blood beading on his lips.

The thunder in his ears resolved into many running feet, and the next few moments were a blur of Armsmen and agents, Allegre's ghost-white face, being practically carried through the throng and flung into the groundcar. Allegre leapt in after him, shouting to the driver, and Gregor was slammed back sideways into a seat as they shot off up the boulevard.


	3. Chapter 3

Ivan missed the whole thing. Which was frankly just fine with him; who wanted to watch as his life was ruined right in front of his eyes? But he felt oddly guilty even then, and afterward, of course, as if he somehow owed it to Miles to bear witness. Which was stupid, because it wasn't like he could have done anything. The whole thing was a fuck up from start to finish, and Captain Ivan Vorpatril was hardly going to save the day when the concerted weight of Imperial Security had failed so spectacularly. But he felt guilty anyway, because that's just how family worked.

He was a good fifty yards ahead of the two of them, waiting in the wind shelter of his groundcar, and, as it happened, he didn't see a thing, occupied as he was with his personal comlink.

"I saw you on the holovid just now," Monique was purring in his ear.

"Did you now?" asked Ivan, looking around hopefully for a hovering holocamera. Damn, he should have waited and strolled regally along with Gregor, done some gladhanding, maybe kissed a few babies. They could never resist him with babies.

And then he heard the subdued whine of stunner fire, and the tenor of the crowd changed, sharpened into stridency and fear. He looked up into disaster: Gregor had already vanished behind a screen of bodies, and Miles was - Miles was a small form dropped carelessly on the cobbles, tiny beneath the bulk of the agent crouched over him, one hand flung out, fingers trailing limply in the snow-packed gutter.

And then they descended on Ivan, six of them all at once, and forced him back into the groundcar. A vehicle tore out ahead of them - either Gregor or a decoy, Ivan thought, as his driver followed.

"What the bloody fucking -" Ivan began.

His point agent, Lieutenant Suise, lifted a hand and pressed the other to his earpiece. "Lord Auditor Vorkosigan is alive," he reported after a moment. "En route to ImpMil. It's a single stab wound in the torso."

"Oh," said Ivan lamely. It had just registered with him mere moments ago that there was question on that point. He swallowed hard. "Is Gregor all right?"

"The Emperor is unharmed."

_That's what you think. Miles, you better be fine or you'll have a lot to answer for_.

"Lieutenant," Ivan said, finally sparing a glance out the window. "Where do you think we're going?"

"The Residence, my lord," Suise said shortly. "ImpSec protocol."

"The - you're out of your bloody mind! Turn around!"

"Sorry, m'lord, I can't. Please, we'll have information on Lord Vorkosigan for you as soon as it's available."

Fuming, Ivan sat back. He was the bloody Imperial Heir, and he didn't even have the power to make an ImpSec lieutenant turn a goddamn car around. But then his eyes fixed on Gregor's groundcar just ahead of them. He couldn't see through the tinted, armored glass, of course, but he would bet Betan dollars that Gregor and Allegre were having a similar conversation, and that the outcome would be very different. Seconds later, the brake lights on the groundcar in front of them flashed and it swung around very illegally in the next intersection. Ivan restrained himself to a satisfied grunt.

The two cars pulled up side-by-side in an underground lot beneath the towering edifice of the ImpMil hospital. Gregor, when he emerged, was white to the lips. He summoned Ivan to his side with a curt gesture, holding General Allegre momentarily off with the other hand.

"There are things I need to do," he said lowly. "Barrayaran bonds are about to crash on the Galactic Exchange, and that's just the beginning."

"Right," said Ivan, who found to his surprise that he'd never actually gotten a 'what happens when somebody tries to kill the Emperor' briefing. Gregor, at least, seemed to know what he was doing.

"Go upstairs and sit with Cordelia," said Gregor. "I'll join you when I can. Aral should be on his way, but she was -" he swallowed visibly "- she was in the crowd today."

Ivan nodded. "Yes, Sire. Anything else?"

"Not at the moment. Thank you." He turned away, his face a mask. The two groups split off then, Ivan's agents ushering him up a lift tube to the third floor, which had apparently been hastily cleared of other patients. Ivan found the Countess in a drab, empty waiting room, talking seriously with a doctor who couldn't have been a day over twenty-three.

"Aunt Cordelia," Ivan said.

She dismissed the doctor with a quiet "thank you," before turning to survey Ivan. "I take it Gregor exerted his authority."

Ivan nodded. "Is Miles -"

"It's a single laceration, seven inches deep, between the third and fourth ribs," she said. "He just went into surgery to repair a lung and several heart valves." She took a breath. "He's lost a lot of blood already, but he should be fine. If it becomes necessary, he can get a replacement heart. Again."

Ivan nodded, tried out _Are you all right_? in his head, and decided it was too inane even for him. "Is there anything I can do?" he ventured at last.

"Thank you," Cordelia said, "but no, not at the moment." She seated herself in one of the hard plastic chairs and briefly rubbed her hands together, as though to warm them. She looked up at him again, and Ivan could literally see her piecing herself back together, gathering resilience and calm and acceptance with practiced, steady hands. "How are you?" she asked.

"Fine," he said awkwardly. "Gregor is here. He said he'll come when he can."

"Of course," she murmured, and composed herself for the vigil.

They waited for hours. Aral arrived, trailing Armsmen. He and the Countess embraced for a long moment, while Ivan turned away, oddly embarrassed. Then the three of them waited together, a silent, awkward trio, until Gregor appeared. Worry had brought out the lines in his face, and his eyes were shadowed and bruised. He would be an intimidating old man someday, Ivan thought.

"The assassin is dead," Gregor said flatly, waving for them to keep their seats. He seated himself on the edge of the chair next to Cordelia. "Heart attack in reaction to the stunner fire, it looks like."

The Count sighed. "No fast penta, then."

"No. But the autopsy has given us a few ideas. For one thing, ImpSec is saying he was definitely an addict. The toxicology screens lit up like fireworks for levels of Jump Juice that would probably have been fatal, anyway."

"Any identification yet?" the Countess asked.

Gregor shook his head. "That might take some time. He's not in the military records or Civil Defense's lists. Or a registered Vorbarr Sultana resident, for that matter."

Allegre came to retrieve him soon after. Gregor went without a word of complaint, and it was only because he was looking that Ivan saw the agonized clench of his mouth as he glanced over his shoulder, just once, down the hallway toward the operating rooms. _I could never do his job_, Ivan thought. He knew that he wasn't really expected to, of course, that Gregor had declared him his heir for political reasons. But if the assassin had succeeded . . . he shivered. It was like looking over a cliff and imagining how it would feel to fall: he could picture, with awful clarity, the catastrophic chain of events that would have led to Emperor Ivan the Feckless (or something similar, doubtless). Ivan knew he didn't have it in him to do what Gregor did, to deal with the bureaucracy and the bullshit and the sheer terror. Gregor had been dealing with it to varying degrees since he was five; he lived in it, like a fish lived in water, and probably had very little understanding that normal human beings would implode under that kind of pressure.

"Ivan?" Aunt Cordelia said. "Are you all right?"

He shook himself and abruptly sat. "Yeah, I just . . . Never mind. I'm fine."

The surgeon finally appeared, almost five hours after they'd first arrived. He was sweating and clearly exhausted.

"He's going to be fine," the surgeon said, and the tension in the room eased from unbearable to simply painful. "We've repaired the heart and grafted some new lung tissue. No transplants necessary. They're moving him to a private room. In just a moment we'll wake him up so you can see him." He paused. "I'm putting him on bed rest for at least the next two weeks to make sure he doesn't start bleeding internally again."

Ivan snorted. "Won't that be fun?"

The Countess had a steely look in her eye. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about it. Thank you, doctor."

Miles looked unbelievably small in the hospital bed. He was very pale; even his lips were white. Ivan tried to be furious with him for a moment - it just wasn't funny, the way he kept doing this to everyone, goddammit - but he couldn't seem to find it in him, not while Miles still looked half-dead. Later, though, he was pretty sure he'd be able to manage some solid outrage. For the moment, Ivan settled for leaning against the wall while the Count and Countess moved to flank their son's bed, and the surgeon loaded a hypospray.

Miles took several long minutes to rouse. At last, he blinked blearily and then winced in the bright overhead lights. The nurse noticed and dimmed them. He looked around, squinting for a moment, and the surgeon leaned into his field of view to ask, "Lord Vorkosigan. Do you know where you are?"

"ImpMil," he managed, in a raspy voice.

"Do you remember why?"

"No," Miles said, slowly. But then Ivan saw his eyes widen and he hissed, "Yes." He grasped weakly at his mother's sleeve. "Gregor?" he whispered.

"He's fine," the Count said, as the Countess captured Miles's hand. "He's in a security briefing right now, but he'll be here as soon as possible."

The surgeon stepped back and gave a satisfied nod. "Very good, considering," he replied to the Countess's inquiring glance. "Is there anything you need, Lord Vorkosigan?"

"Water, please," Miles answered hoarsely.

The surgeon nodded and gestured to the nurse, who promptly disappeared. "I'll look in on you soon," he said. "The call button to the nurse's station is right here if you need anything."

"Thanks," Miles said, and the surgeon bowed himself out just as the nurse returned with a pitcher of water. Cordelia dismissed the young woman, who seemed relieved, and helped Miles drink through a straw with practiced skill.

"How do you feel?" she asked, gently wiping his chin

"

Numb," he said. "And woozy. Was anyone else hurt?"

"No," Ivan said, making himself known for the first time. "Just you, you great idiot. Always have to be the bloody hero, don't you? You'll have all of Barrayar at your feet now, as if the entire planet wasn't already eating out of your hand."

Miles smiled whitely. "Bastards didn't get 'im. All that matters, really."

"Shh," the Countess soothed, stroking his hair. "Close your eyes and try and sleep for a bit, all right?"

"M'kay. Wake me when Gregor comes?"

"Of course."

Miles slept, awareness gone between one breath and the next.

*~*~*

Miles's hospital room was quiet and dark. Gregor could just make out Cordelia and Aral sitting to one side of Miles's bed, and Ivan, who appeared to be dozing, on the other. Miles himself was practically invisible, just a shock of dark hair against a white pillow.

"How is he?" he whispered, going to stand next to Ivan, who woke with a startled, jumpy twitch.

"He's been asleep for the last couple of hours," Cordelia replied, in hushed tones. "But he said to wake him when you came."

"Any news?" asked Aral in a brusque whisper.

Gregor shook his head. "Not really. An informant on the eastside recognized the assassin on sight, but he didn't have a name for us. Drade's people are trying to trace his whereabouts in the hours before the attack, but that will probably take some time. Several extremist groups have claimed responsibility, but none seems credible thus far." He glanced down at the silent Ivan. "Sitzen has just been to see me. You're to make yourself available to him as soon as possible, please, for some holos and perhaps a statement." At this very moment, every holovid channel across the Empire was broadcasting fresh images of Gregor, reassuringly alive and undamaged. The need to demonstrate the same for Ivan was not so vital, but important nonetheless.

Ivan nodded, uncharacteristically pliable (or at least silent) on the topic of his public persona.

"The Komarr trip is cancelled," Gregor continued. "ImpSec doesn't want me traveling right now. We're bringing the delegates here, but we'll have to push it back at least a month."

"They'll love that," Aral said tiredly.

Gregor glanced down at Miles, who lay flat on his back beneath the blankets, face turned to one side. "May we have a moment?" he said softly.

The three of them left without comment. Gregor stood for a long moment beside the bed, eyes closed, breathing in and out in the dark and the quiet. At last he opened his eyes and took a chair. Miles's hand lay palm-up on the blanket; it was warm, probably from Cordelia's own touch, when Gregor closed his hands around it. He wanted very much to put his head down right now, sleep for a time with Miles breathing beside him. But he had no such luxury, as there was still much to do today.

"Miles," he said quietly, and pressed the hand he held.

He'd been hoping for a gentle awakening, the offering and receipt of in-person reassurances, and then a return to healing sleep. But Miles jerked on the bed, breath hitching in a small, pained sound. "Gregor?" he said, squinting. He was breathing with the aid of a synthetic lung positioned inside the perforated one, to give the patched tissue a few days to rest. But the lung was necessarily smaller, and the single word seemed to leave him breathless.

"Here," said Gregor. "Are you in pain?"

"Not much," Miles said, grimacing. "No, don't," he added, as Gregor's hand drifted toward the call button. "Don't want to sleep."

"All right," said Gregor, prepared to override Miles's judgment on this point at a moment's notice. "Is there anything else you need?"

Miles's eyes flickered to the side table, and Gregor turned at once. There was a spoon for the mound of ice in a frosty freezer pitcher, but Gregor bypassed it. Miles's lips were warm and dry, tongue flickering once at Gregor's fingertips as he accepted a cube and moistened his mouth.

Gregor looked up and straight into his eyes. "Don't you ever do that again," he said, in a voice which had sent other men hunkering down on their bellies.

Miles only blinked up at him, mouth curling humorlessly. "Don't really expect me to answer that, do you?"

Gregor set his teeth and offered another piece of ice, poised delicately on his fingertips. _I could hate you for doing this to me_.

Miles turned his head, accepted the ice, and kissed Gregor's fingers with his cool mouth. "Perhaps not the best time to tell you," he murmured.

"Tell me what?"

Miles breathed out carefully. "Ivan said something when I woke up . . . about the whole planet eating out of my hand. Made me think."

"About what?" asked Gregor, puzzled.

Miles looked up at him, eyes huge and dark in the pale oval of his face. "I think . . . now," he said, words coming slowly as he worked for breath. "It's time. I think . . . we can dare."

Gregor prickled. "Oh," he said, on a startled breath.

"Think about it," said Miles, watching him.

"I," said Gregor, doing just that. "I don't . . . you have two weeks of bed rest coming."

"Good," said Miles. "Time to plan. Shore up support - progressives and friends. And there are still a few people we haven't told. End of Winterfair should be about perfect for the betrothal, don't you think?"

"I," Gregor said again. Miles's words were clipped, thoughts caged by the effort of speech. But Gregor could see the glint of feverish calculation in his eyes; he knew it well from his own mirror. They'd touched the edges of this argument before, danced uneasily around it just enough to know each other's steps. But now the music had changed and their places were reversed. "I don't think," Gregor said. "I don't want . . . no."

"No?" Miles repeated, raising his eyebrows. "But you're the one -"

"I know." He swallowed the bitter irony. "Miles, I can't. Not now." _I can't watch you bleed, and then offer your back again for the knife. Don't make me_.

"We may never get an opportunity like this again," Miles argued.

"Well, I certainly _hope_ not."

"Don't," said Miles quietly. "Don't let them win like this."

Gregor let out a pent breath. He could quash this right now by brute force of will. But then what was the point of the whole thing, if he wouldn't trust Miles when he couldn't trust himself? "I'll think about it, all right? But in the meantime, you're supposed to be resting. Not . . . scheming."

"Yeah," said Miles, managing to sag in on himself without actually moving. "Stay?"

"Of course. Close your eyes."

Miles did, and Gregor waited while he settled, his two hands still closed warmly around Miles's own. Miles tried to yawn, cut himself short with a pained hitch, and settled into slow, shallow breaths. He slept, and Gregor sat, unable to tear his fingers away from the steady pulse beating in Miles's wrist.

He could not resist the sense of Miles's arguments, especially as they were so lately his own. And to say no just as Miles was saying _Yes, let's_ when for months Gregor had been wanting to hear just that . . .

But by announcing their relationship to Barrayar at large, Miles would open himself up to attacks from all sides. Some of them might be physical. Others would be less obvious, and thus, perhaps even more indefensible. And to do it now, when Miles was weak and Gregor still reeling from the terror of having almost lost him _again_ . . .

He rose at last, tucked Miles's hand beneath the blanket, and left. Miraculously, no one was waiting in the corridor to shepherd him away. He found Miles's parents and Ivan with coffee and sandwiches in a private waiting room next door.

"He's asleep," he said, gratefully accepting the cup Cordelia poured for him. "He seems to be doing well with the temporary lung."

"And how are you?" Cordelia asked, eyeing him critically.

"I am . . . relieved beyond telling." Not entirely true, but not a lie, either. "But I should probably mention . . . He's somehow had this idea - thanks to something _you_ said, Ivan - that _now_ is the time to go public."

He glanced up to gauge their reactions. Aral was frowning deeply; Cordelia, as usual, looked thoughtful; Ivan seemed to be trying to figure out if Gregor was genuinely annoyed with him.

Finally Cordelia spoke. "I do see the . . . sense in it."

"So do I," Gregor sighed. "And I wish I didn't. This was never how I pictured doing . . . this."

"How _did_ you picture it?" she asked.

Gregor shook his head. "Not under duress. When we were strong and certain and sure."

"Well," Aral said a bit gruffly, "the two of you have achieved much in the last four years. He is right, in that respect."

Gregor tried not to let show how much Aral's praise pleased him; he should probably not still be so affected by the compliments of his former Lord Regent a full twenty years after his majority. But Aral Vorkosigan was much more than that to Gregor: his foster father, and his future father-in-law, as well as a great man of his time. And this was, after all, the very last thing he had wanted for his son, for reasons that today's events had clearly and painfully illustrated. In the last four years Aral had never said a word on the topic, but Gregor had felt his disapproval as a palpable chill in their relationship, the inescapable sense that something was not right between them. Gregor had not known what to do, and so he had carried on as though all was well, but it had disturbed him. But perhaps it was not too much to hope that once they were past all this, things might become easier between them again.

Allegre appeared in the doorway. Gregor nodded to him and rose. Allegre was going to be rather compulsive concerning his security for days or even weeks, and he wanted Gregor back at the Residence as soon as possible.

Cordelia touched his arm as he turned to go. "Don't let Miles run you over on this. He got to be unconscious for the terrifying parts. If you don't feel ready, there is absolutely no shame in it."

He bent his head to her. "Thank you. Keep me posted?"

"Of course, love. Go. Get some rest."

_Strong and certain and sure_, Gregor thought a few minutes later, as his car turned for the Residence. Did it matter, after all, if it was an internal state of sure-footedness, or only an external perception? Which would keep them safer? He felt sudden, keen sympathy for Miles, whose reticence had previously frustrated and quietly wounded him. It was not doubt which had stayed Miles's hand before, it was fear. But now Miles's brain was alive with something a great deal like battle madness, when the fear is gone and all that is left is to charge on ahead.

_Miles, you are insane. And you are taking me with you, again_.


	4. Chapter 4

Miles's surgeon allowed him to go home to Vorkosigan House two days later. Gregor contrived to have a few hours free in the evening, and he arrived just as the sun was sinking behind the artistically ivied garden wall. Pym, bowing him into the foyer, looked tired and harried.

"Is he in bed?" Gregor demanded as the Armsman ushered him upstairs.

"Er - yes, Sire," Pym said.

"Is he resting?"

"Er . . . not exactly, Sire." They shared a rueful glance; Miles had been increasingly restless in the hospital, powerful narcotics and medical injunctions notwithstanding.

He entered Miles's bedroom to find, much to his consternation, that Lady Alys and General Allegre were already there, and that Miles seemed to be running a strategy session from his bed.   
Gregor had given his go-ahead not twenty-six hours before, in the quiet sterility of Miles's hospital room.

"I still don't like it," he'd said, as they'd consumed an imported Ma Kosti dinner off of hospital laptrays.

"We can't do this divided," Miles had said. "If you're not ready, we should forget the whole idea."

"No," Gregor had said. "You know it's not like that. You know how tired I am of living like this. I want you in my life, every day."

"I do know," Miles had replied. "And I was the one dragging my feet. Well . . . I'm not dragging my feet anymore." He'd looked up, eyes serious, pupils large and dark from the medications. "Yes. I say yes, and I say now."

Gregor could not have refused. How could a starving man refuse a banquet?

He'd known that things would move quickly after that, especially considering that Miles was Miles, but somehow he'd thought that even Miles would be practical enough to give himself a bit more time. That, Gregor realized now, had been a very silly assumption. He gestured for Alys and Allegre to keep their seats, and bent to greet Miles. "Eager, are we?" he murmured, settling himself at the foot of the bed.

"The iron is hot, and all that," Miles said. "We have a very narrow window of opportunity open to us, and we mustn't waste it. And I don't want this to be sloppy," he added. "No mistakes." He scowled suddenly at the lumps that were his legs under the blankets. "I don't like this."

"Don't like what?" Gregor asked.

Miles made a frustrated gesture that encompassed the bed, his immobility, the room, the house, and the greater medical establishment. "I can't pace and gesticulate like this!"

"Well, if you start bleeding internally again, you won't be able to do anything at all, so do as you're told."

Miles cast him an oppressed, thwarted look. "You sound like my mother."

"Yes, well, I learned from the best, didn't I?" He took a deep breath and nodded his belated greetings to Allegre and Alys. "How long have the two of you been here?"

"About twenty minutes," Alys said, with a look that conveyed quite clearly that he owed her for this.

"We were discussing just how to make our announcement," Miles said.

"I suggest a very controlled medium," Allegre put in. "We can arrange a broadcast from the Residence, but no live appearances. Please, Sire," he added a bit plaintively, apparently appealing to the higher authority - or maybe just to the more reasonable party.

"I think that sounds prudent," said Gregor. He looked to Alys. "How do you think we should handle the actual announcement?"

"Well," Alys said, looking thoughtful, "there certainly isn't a precedent, but if you were marrying a woman, we'd simply announce a betrothal date. A broadcast with the two of you sitting side-by-side, a decorous declaration of sentiment, a celebratory ball in the bride's honor . . ."   
"We should have made a recording while I was in the hospital," Miles said regretfully. "Would have been very dramatic."

"There will be plenty of opportunities to indulge your penchant for melodrama, I'm quite sure," Gregor replied.

"True," said Miles cheerfully. "And I do think we are better served fostering the idea that our, hmm, liaison is quite recent. And speaking of appearances, we should begin planning now for my confirmation before the Council of Counts, make sure nothing unfortunate happens. I wouldn't put it past, say, Vormoncrief, to simply get up there and spit in my face."

Gregor winced. The confirmation and oath-taking were more than ceremonial, though the implicit power to divert an Emperor's choice had never been exercised. In this case . . . someone might well dare. He shook his head. "It's best if I deal with that," he said. "It shall be made clear that I expect every single one of them to put his hands between yours - and to smile while doing it."

There was a slightly loaded pause, into which Alys asked, "Do you have your Seconds chosen?"

"Ivan," Miles said. "He can make himself publicly useful after the announcement, show his support." He smiled maliciously. "He'll be so thrilled."

"Gregor?" Alys prompted.

"Henri Vorvolk, probably," Gregor said. "He doesn't know yet, though."

"We can invite him for dinner next week," Miles said immediately, in the tones of one who has already thought of it all. "Dono, too, and Ren "

"Miles," Gregor said in exasperation, "you are supposed to be _resting_."

"It's not for a week!"

"Ah," said Alys delicately, "Gregor. Who do you intend to stand in your parents' place?"

"Kou and Drou," said Gregor, after the minutest of pauses. Alys herself and Simon Illyan would serve just as well, but she would be needed elsewhere, and he suspected Simon would find the spotlight discomforting. He glanced up at Miles, who nodded his approval. "I'll speak to them before the announcement," he added. Telling Kou and Drou had been one of the most nerve-wracking moments in all of this, but necessary both for personal regard and for the doubtless permeable conduit of information from Mark to Kareen.

"Excellent," said Alys, making a satisfied note. "Now, I do think it will be important to hold a small celebration after the announcement. Semi-formal, I think - perhaps only five courses, and then dancing. Is that acceptable?"

They spent nearly another hour mapping out details, by the end of which Miles's energy seemed to have spent itself, and he was looking rather pale and fatigued. Gregor didn't think he was imagining the deepening pain lines around his mouth, either. "Thank you," he said, firmly and with finality, when they'd reached a pause in the discussion. "Your insights are appreciated. We can continue this another time."

Allegre nodded. Lady Alys, who must have noticed Miles's pallor as well, gave Gregor an approving glance. Miles, on the other hand, stirred and protested, "We're not done yet."

"Yes," Gregor said, leaving no room for argument. "We are."

He elected to escort the two guests downstairs himself. Cordelia and Aral, coming out of the library, met them in the foyer.

"Your son," Alys said, "is possibly the worst patient I have ever encountered. Simon was better behaved."

Cordelia's lips pursed in agreement. "It's one thing that a great deal of practice does not seem to improve." She looked to Gregor. "Are you staying, love?"

"Yes," Gregor said, unspeakably relieved at the first opportunity to spend more than an hour or two in Miles's company. Even Miles's temper, noticeably shortened by confinement, would be welcome. The Count and Countess, on the other hand, had done nothing but tend their son, and the strain and weariness showed in their faces. Inspiration struck. The Imperial Box would go entirely unoccupied tonight otherwise - why not? "Would the two of you like an evening out?" he offered. "The Symphony is premiering a new program tonight."

"Oh," Cordelia said, shaking her head, "thank you, but I think -"

"_I_ think," Alys said, cutting her off, "that that is an excellent idea."

"Yes," said Aral, taking his wife's hand. "They're right, dear Captain, a night out will do us good." He pressed her hand between his own. "He'll be fine."

Gregor turned to Alys. "The invitation extends to yourself and Simon, of course. There are more than enough seats."

"Thank you, Gregor," Alys said. "That would be lovely."

Allegre excused himself, and Alys followed to collect Simon and dress for the symphony. Aral and Cordelia went upstairs to get ready as well, leaving Gregor to go back in and face Miles, whom he expected to be somewhat annoyed with him for breaking off the meeting. Instead, he found Miles almost asleep, though he stirred when Gregor lowered himself carefully onto the bed next to him. "Y'staying?" Miles asked blearily.

"Yes. For the night, if it's all right with you." He hoped it was; his groundcar had already left, so as to confuse anyone keeping an eye on Vorkosigan House. An unmarked, nondescript groundcar would pick him up at dawn and take him back to the Residence by way of a long, circuitous route. They didn't risk these overnighters at Vorkosigan House very often - Miles mostly came to the Residence, and that only with the greatest planning and caution.

""Course," Miles said, and stretched - or tried to. His movements were cut off by a hiss of pain. "S'okay," he said, reading the alarm on Gregor's face. "It just twinges every now and then."

It had seemed like rather more than a twinge to Gregor, but he refrained from comment. "Your parents are going to the symphony tonight," he said, instead.

"Oh, good," Miles said.

"They looked like they needed it."

"I've been informed that bed rest turns me into a tyrant," said Miles. He turned his head, yawning and swiping irritably at his face. "We need to message Henri and Dono and René soon, ensure they'll be in the city."

"Miles," Gregor said in exasperation.

"I'm just saying," Miles said, innocently. He hesitated. "I would also like to tell Madame Vorsoisson myself."

Gregor was silent for a moment. "Ah," he said at last.

"Gregor, please don't -"

"I'm not. I didn't say a word." _I've_ never _said a word_.

"There was never anything. You know that."

"I know that," Gregor said. He paused briefly, thinking. "You do realize that she would have liked it to be otherwise?" Miles made an objecting noise, but Gregor forestalled any comments. "Believe me. I know. I spent years watching you, thinking I could never have you. I know what it looks like. And you know it too, or you wouldn't want to tell her yourself."

Miles didn't answer immediately. His head was turned away, and Gregor waited him out patiently. Finally he said, "I don't think she feels that way anymore."

"Yes, I believe you're right." It had been such a relief, when Gregor had realized that. Something about the cool, reserved Ekaterin Vorsoisson had unnerved him. And Miles had been drawn to her in a way that had unsettled him even more, though Miles had simply said that he liked her and that he felt somewhat responsible for the death of her husband - however ghastly a marriage it had been - and Gregor had known to leave it at that. And no, there had never been anything between them.

But it was the might-have-beens that discomfited him whenever he allowed himself to think about them, rather like the creeping unease he felt whenever Elli Quinn's name came up. Or two years ago, when Miles had received a tight beam message from halfway across the Nexus about the extraordinary Sergeant Taura, and left within twelve hours of reading it. He'd returned three months later, exhausted and sad and full of unspoken regrets. Though she had been laid to rest in space, Miles had burned a funeral offering at Vorkosigan Surleau. Gregor had added a lock of his own hair, and knelt in the dirt with Miles while they watched it burn down to ashes.

It wasn't jealousy. Gregor knew he had nothing to fear from any of them; Miles's fidelity was unquestionable, no matter what prior acts he liked to confess to in moments of doubt or anger. It was, perhaps, a lack of understanding. Gregor had no such might-have-beens in his own past, as his life did not permit such things . . . unless one counted Cavilo, which Gregor certainly did not. Miles was the beginning and the end for him, his first and his last love. It was not so for Miles, which felt a bit . . . uneven. And so there was discomfort. Which he really needed to get past, Gregor decided. He didn't have to see Elli Quinn, but Madame Vorsoisson lived in Vorbarr Sultana and was Miles's friend.

"In any case," said Miles, "we can compare schedules and I'll send out invitations for dinner late next week. I'll be much better then," he added, forestalling further comment.

"Fine," Gregor said. "Now, no more talk about this, all right? I don't recall a definition of 'resting' that includes the management of a political and social coup."

Miles grudgingly agreed, but shortly thereafter complained he was bored and couldn't concentrate enough to read or sit still and could he _please_ just get up for a few minutes? Feeling quite as though he were nannying a three-year-old, Gregor sent Pym off on a hunt to scrounge up an old Tacti-Go set to keep Miles at least moderately amused until he fell asleep again. They set up the game; Gregor was reminded strongly of another time they'd played this, in the basement apartments of ImpSec HQ. A thousand years ago, it felt like, though it had really been less than fifteen. Right before he'd tried to run away from, well, everything, and ended up falling in love. The view over the past decade and a half gave him vertigo.

They played three games; Miles was clearly more tired than he wanted to believe, as Gregor nearly beat him twice. They were debating the merits of setting up a fourth game when Pym appeared bearing dinner, which was a much more pleasurable distraction. Shortly thereafter Cordelia and Aral, dressed for the symphony, stuck their heads in. Cordelia kissed Miles on the forehead, sternly ordered him to be good and not give Gregor any trouble (_Nannying, indeed_, Gregor thought wryly). Aral didn't repeat his wife's orders, but simply gave Miles a sharp look, captured the Countess's hand for his arm, and wished them both a good night.

They capped off their meal with chocolate cake drizzled with raspberry sauce; Miles also received a handful of tablets from Pym, who stood by the bed to make sure that m'lord took them all, thank you very much. Miles's eyes closed mere minutes later, his breathing falling into the steady rhythms of deep, healing sleep. Gregor retrieved a hand viewer, flipping between mostly speculative reports on the latest technological and biological Cetagandan innovations, and the work of a twenty-sixth century Earth playwright.

He sat on top of the covers, leaning up against the headboard, one hand occupied with the reader and the other tucked beneath Miles's shoulder. Certainly not the most entertaining evening they'd ever spent, but the lingering aftershocks of panic still coursed through his veins sometimes, and it was nice just to have Miles here, asleep and unable to protest being stared at.

He was entirely unaware of the passage of time until he heard a soft footstep and the quiet creak of the door to the sitting room. Pym had left it ajar, and Cordelia pushed it open a little more to peer in at them. She was still in her evening finery, a dark green gown and flashing jewels at the throat and wrists, but her long hair had been released from its coils and swung in disarray over her shoulders. She smiled at sight of them, and Gregor inclined his head to her.

"Did you have a nice evening?" he asked quietly, though he was pretty sure a Cetagandan invasion wouldn't wake Miles.

"Very, thank you." She said no more, but simply lingered there in the doorway, apparently unwilling to leave just yet. Gregor watched her, reader forgotten in his lap. He knew that look, and what it meant.

"Cordelia," he said into the silence. "He's fine. Or he will be." _I won't let this happen, ever again_.

She met his eyes, reading him easily with an ironic, helpless twist of the mouth. She crossed the room on silent stockinged feet to perch carefully on Miles's other side. Her hand passed over his dark head, fingers ghosting down his cheek.

"You know," she said, mouth curling in unexpected amusement, "when I was pregnant, there was quite the round of speculation. Everyone wanted to know the gender - if it was a girl it was assumed we'd marry her off to you, and if it was a boy that he'd replace you."

This startled a snort out of Gregor. "If they'd only known," he said.

"But you did, and so does he." She bent over Miles, long hair drifting down around him, apparently caught in a moment of maternal fascination. Gregor watched her hands on his face, the rapt attention with which she straightened the covers and ran a thumb along the arch of his brow. He was reminded suddenly of the dimly remembered time when she'd taken his five-year-old self and sat him down and had a very serious conversation with him, the day Miles had first come home to the Residence. _You're going to have to be very careful_, she'd said, holding his eyes frankly and steadily like few other people did. _He's very fragile and he can be hurt easily, so you'll need to be very careful when you play_.

As it turned out, the only threat to Miles's painfully fragile bones had been the little monster himself, all the worse when he'd belatedly walked. And hadn't _that_ been a day: Miles had been released from months of immobilization for his spine just that week, and he'd decided he would walk, therapy schedules and muscle exercises be damned. Gregor had trailed him down the corridor as he reeled and stumbled and crawled, unsure if he should put a stop to this; if he even could. Miles had eventually made it to his father's office, where he'd promptly fallen and broken five bones in his foot. Later, after all the fuss, Gregor had seen the Lord Regent weeping silently in the arms of his wife, with an emotion his ten-year-old mind could not put a name to.

No, Miles had been his own trouble, and plenty of it. It would be many years before Gregor would become a threat to him.

"You'll have your own someday soon," Cordelia said into his thoughts. Her head was still bent, as if she could not tear herself away.

"Are you looking forward to being a grandmother?" he asked, a little discomfited by the topic. Children were, of course, an immediate consequence of his public union, and the sheer enormity of one prospect outshadowed the other on any given day.

"Yes, for a long time now," Cordelia said. "I . . . I am glad that Aral will be here to see it."

Gregor started, the breath rushing out of him. "Is he -"

"No, no." She looked up at last, reaching over and closing a hand over his. "I'm sorry, love, I didn't mean to frighten you. Aral is well. He is simply . . . aging."

"Oh," said Gregor, swallowing.

"Another decade, perhaps," she said, almost abstractedly. "Maybe more, if he does as he is told." She stared off into the distance. "That seems a very short time to me now. Strange."

Gregor swallowed again, then cleared his throat. He could not comprehend what must be happening behind her eyes in that moment. She and Aral were so inextricably bound up in each other; they were and had always been a composite entity, stable and intense and passionate. He did not know who they would be without each other, and he realized suddenly that Cordelia herself was looking ahead to a stranger, to the unknown dowager Countess.

"I'm sorry," she said at last, squeezing his hand hard and looking into his eyes again. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"You seem so calm," said Gregor, before he could stop himself.

"Do I?" Her face shivered, and for a single moment something wild and lost and stricken looked out at him. "I have practice, that's all," she said, and smiled at him again, her old self. "Good night, dear heart." She leaned across Miles, kissed his cheek, and was gone in a swirl of wrinkled skirts.

Miles was still sound asleep when Gregor shut down the hand viewer and slid in beside him. The bed was warm from Miles's body heat, and he turned toward Gregor, curling protectively around his ribs in his sleep. Gregor settled himself carefully around him and by degrees allowed himself to fall asleep.

Miles woke once in the night, with a jerk that wrenched Gregor to sudden alertness as well. "Sorry," Miles gasped into the darkness. "Sorry."

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah," Miles said, but he sounded breathless. _Scared_, Gregor thought suddenly, reproaching himself for the belated insight, for not realizing that Miles would feel it, too. Of course he would; he'd been there, just as much as Gregor.

"I'm fine," Miles said, audibly regulating his breath, and then rolling carefully over. "I just . . ." His lips found Gregor's in the dark and lingered there. Gregor returned it gently, threading his fingers through Miles's hair to cradle the back of his head; it was quiet, mutual affirmation.

"M'okay," Miles said again. He resettled, breath puffing warmly against Gregor's throat.

Gregor could tell the moment Miles began dropping off to sleep again by the small, involuntary twitches of his body, and then the moment of true sleep by his stillness. Gregor opened his eyes and looked out at the dark Barrayaran night. Eventually he slept, and he did not wake again until morning, when Armsman Roic roused him so he could dress and slip away. Miles was groggy, barely awake, and Gregor lingered a moment after kissing him good morning and goodbye, watching him slide back into sleep.

It pleased him greatly to think, while staring out the window of the heavily armored groundcar on the long drive home, that they soon wouldn't have to sneak at all anymore.

*~*~*

The days were long and tedious, edges dulled by the decreasing trickle of pain suppressants. It wasn't anyone's fault, Miles knew, that he couldn't manage to be entertained by anything for long. He was tired all the time, trapped in bed by a body that stubbornly refused to heal at the pace dictated by political necessity. Which was the heart of it, really; there was so very much to do, and he was allowed to do so very little of it.

He tried to read, but his concentration was nowhere to be found; he rather thought he'd left it on the cobblestones, poured out with a few pints of his blood. He'd caught a glimpse of the holo footage one afternoon, flipping restlessly through channels. He'd watched, gulped, turned it hastily off, and dreamt that night of a spreading stain on dirty city snow.

He slept a lot, or just lay there in a half-drowsing, sucking lethargy. The second week dawned, marginally better than the first, and Miles chafed fretfully, at his caregivers and himself equally. He didn't remember recovery feeling like this, even after his bone replacement surgeries. _Probably because you're getting old; you don't bounce quite so well anymore_.

All things considered, he was unspeakably grateful for the prospect of some new company, even if it was the potentially awkward interview with Ekaterin, and then the gauntlet of his political cronies. He was allowed to get dressed ("I'll be damned if I tell anyone this news while in my pajamas," he had informed his parents and Pym) and sit on his made-up bed, but he was not permitted to go out into the Yellow Parlor.

He sat up against a bank of pillows, awaiting Ekaterin's arrival and watching Pym setting a bedside table for two. Telling people over dessert seemed to work well, he thought, especially a Ma Kosti dessert. Speaking of which . . . "Pym, there's no bug butter in today's menu, is there? I can only take so much of that stuff in a twenty-six hour period."

"No, m'lord. Ma Kosti promised you that there wouldn't be."

"She did?" Miles asked, blinking.

"Yes, m'lord," Pym said. "Yesterday. She agreed to provide a nice, light vinaigrette with the salad, just as you'd asked."

"Oh." Miles blinked again. "I must be getting senile in my old age."

Ekaterin was punctual, as usual. She had obviously come straight from a lecture, because her bookbag was still slung over her shoulder and her hair was pinned up with a stylus. She looked very young like that, Miles thought, except for her clothing, which was appropriate to her age and station. And new, Miles realized. Not expensive, perhaps, but the bolero and skirt were definitely of the latest Vorbarr Sultana fashions.

"Madame Vorsoisson," Miles said with a smile. He slid off the bed to his feet, ignored Pym's glare, and shook her hand warmly. "You look lovely today."

"Oh, thank you, Lord Vorkosigan. You look -"

"Like death warmed over?" Miles grimaced and settled himself back on the bed, gesturing her to a chair. "It's better than the alternative, I'll say that much. Pym, could you go see how lunch is coming along?" His Armsman disappeared.

"I was so very glad to hear that you were all right," Ekaterin said. "The holovids were just awful, and they just kept playing it over and over and over again."

Miles winced. "I know." He shook his head. "This media explosion is very good for Barrayar, but the last time someone tried to kill me, at least I didn't have to watch it on every news channel for days afterwards. It's a very undignified thing, almost-dying. I've taken to simply keeping my holovid off."

"Me too," Ekaterin sighed.

"Well, I'm fine now. Or going to be, anyway. And that's enough about that. How is your semester winding down?"

"Oh, just fine. It's a bit frightening to be almost done, though."

Miles raised an eyebrow. "Certainly you have options?"

"Well, yes." She paused; Miles recognized it as her habitual hesitation before saying anything even remotely self-complimentary. "I've actually received offers for several garden commissions. Large ones. On the basis of my work in yours, I believe."

"Splendid!" Miles said. "That's wonderful."

"Thank you. And Tsipis has been helping me get my business started. He's taught me everything I'll need to know to manage my own books - wonderful man."

"He is that," Miles agreed. It pleased him greatly to see her happy. To see her _talking_. She had been so painfully reserved when he first met her - still was, in public. She was . . . a great deal like Gregor that way. He thought, not for the first time, that Ekaterin Vorsoisson and Gregor Vorbarra had quite a lot in common: a cool, collected reserve that masked all sorts of vulnerabilities; a vast inner calm - God, Miles loved Gregor's ability to just be still, and Ekaterin had the same quality about her; and a sharp intelligence and wit, if one knew where to look and how to draw it out. Miles thought that while Gregor had probably never consciously made the connection himself, deep down he knew. Perhaps that was what made him so uncomfortable with Ekaterin; the affinity of strangers could feel like a trespass, sometimes. Well, that was part of it, anyway.

Lunch arrived promptly, and conversation became necessarily stilted for a time. Miles steered it onto Ekaterin's not-quite-thirteen year old son, Nikki, and she opened up even further. He ate, and listened, and mentally prepared himself. He was afraid that soon she would not be so open.

"Goodness, I've been rambling," Ekaterin said as they uncovered the dessert tray. "I'm sorry for talking your ear off."

"Not at all," Miles said sincerely. "Ah - could you put one of the peach tarts on a plate for me? Thank you." He sighed. "I've been bored out of my skull recently, what with this enforced bed rest."

"I'm sure you've had visitors," she said.

"Yes, of course. My parents have been around, and Ivan -" He caught her wince. "Sorry about Ivan at my birthday party, by the way."

"Don't worry about it. I can handle him."

"I know, I just . . . anyway. And Gregor has been by, several times." _Now, boy. Before you lose your nerve_. "Which sort of brings me to why I asked you here today." She looked up, surprised. He hadn't said that there was any sort of agenda for this visit; she'd probably assumed that he was going through his address book and roping every acquaintance he had into coming over to entertain him for an afternoon until he was done recovering. Which wasn't a bad idea, come to think of it . . . _Focus_. He took a deep breath. "In about a week and a half, there's going to be an announcement from the Imperial Residence. Gregor is getting betrothed."

"Oh!" Her eyes widened in surprise. "That's . . . very nice." Then her brows lowered in puzzlement. _So why are you telling me this_? her expression asked.

"It is," Miles agreed. One last deep breath, which twinged like a bastard. "The thing is . . . he's getting betrothed . . . to me."

There was a beat of silence. And then another. The slight paling of her face was only visible because Miles was looking for it. "I . . ." she tried, and then stopped.

"I know it's a shock," he said quietly. She wasn't looking at him. "He and I love each other, and have for a long time. I . . . didn't want you to find out with the rest of the planet." _I owe you that much_.

She was silent for quite a while. Miles picked at the remains of his peach tart.

"How long?" she asked at last.

"Sorry?"

"How long have you . . . have the two of you . . ."

Miles cleared his throat. "Four years. Almost."

"I see." Her tone was cool, a marked contrast to her earlier warm chatter. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry_, Miles thought desperately. He had wondered a few times, a very few times and always when he was alone and awake in the depths of the night, about what might have happened if Gregor had waited too long. The scenario had hurt too much to contemplate: himself and Ekaterin nurturing the small seed of possibility which had lain dormant between them, hopefully happy, with their progeny in tow; Gregor, alone and silent, never sharing himself with anyone. Much, much too painful to think of. Especially now. Miles could imagine their lives, passing like ships in the night where they could have caught and held. The very thought of not knowing what he knew now made him turn his face away and swallow hard.

"I hope you know . . ." Miles began, and trailed off. There was much he wanted to say, but all of it meant facing head-on the unspoken things that lay between them. "I care about you deeply," he said at last.

"I know," she said. She took a deep breath. "Just not - not like that." Miles breathed a silent sigh of relief. They were to be honest with each other, then. Thank God. This conversation, already so difficult, would have been excruciating otherwise. "Four years . . ." she said. "Before or after Komarr?"

"Before." He hesitated. "Just before." _I never had to choose, thank God_. He'd never considered that thought, what might have happened if he'd gone to Komarr, met Ekaterin, and then returned to Gregor's confession. Oh, what a nightmare that might have been.

She nodded, said nothing. Miles watched her carefully. "You're a lot alike, you know, you and Gregor," he said at last. She met his eyes in surprise. "Well, you know, there are the obvious differences." He waved a hand indicating her general female-ness. "But I'm not too fussed about those." There, that was a smile. It didn't quite reach her dark eyes, but it was better than nothing.

"I can't imagine I'm anything like the Emperor," she said.

"Oh, I think you'd be surprised," said Miles. "You have the same qualities about you that make me love him." Her eyes were suddenly bright, and she ducked her head. Miles sucked in a quick breath and said, "Oh, Ekaterin, I - I can't be sorry about me and Gregor. But I am sorry as hell that this hurts you. I never wanted to do that. I kept hoping I wouldn't have to."

"You have never been anything but honorable toward me," she said, staring down at her lap. "You never led me to think . . . for awhile, yes, I hoped, but . . . I eventually gave up." She took a deep breath, steadied herself. "I've thought for some time now that you might have . . . someone else. I thought maybe it was a galactic woman whom you met when you went off-planet, because you never went around with anyone here."

Miles grimaced. "I tried that years ago during my covert ops days. They all flatly refused to marry me. Well," he added when she raised her eyebrows, "I don't know that it was the marrying me part that was the sticking point. I like to think it wasn't, anyway."

"I'm sure not," she said. She sighed deeply then, but no longer seemed near tears. Miles was vastly relieved; he wouldn't have known what to do if she'd started to cry. He'd thought that she'd hold it together well. "Is it as wonderful as everyone says it is?" she asked after a moment.

"Is what as wonderful?"

"Being in love. Everyone always says it's this or that, and I can never believe them because it's so far from my experience." She shook her head and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Thirty-four years old," she said ruefully, "and the extent of my romantic experience is ten years with Tien and two spent nursing an unrequited schoolgirl crush on a man I just found out has been involved with the _Emperor_ the entire time I've known him."

Miles thought for a moment before answering. It was not a glib question, he sensed. She wanted to know . . . what? That there was hope for her? That it was worth it? "It is wonderful," Miles said. "There were some real rough spots for Gregor and me, especially in the beginning, but . . ." He trailed off. "Loving him makes everything I've ever accomplished seem small," he said at last. "It's an extraordinary responsibility, knowing I must care for the things he has given me, and trusting him to do the same. It's the most important thing I'll ever do." He looked at her carefully, forced her to meet and hold his gaze. "And you'll find someone," he said. "I know you will."

She shook her head. "I don't think I can. I think I might be pathologically incapable, in fact."

"No, you're not," Miles said firmly. "You know yourself now in a way you didn't four years ago. In a way you couldn't have even begun to know yourself fourteen years ago when you married Tien."

"True." She glanced at him. "Thanks in a large part to you."

He shook his head. "Never credit anyone with that except yourself, Ekaterin. You've sweated blood for it. Your identity, whatever you make of it, is your own. I learned that one the hard way." He leaned over and grasped her hand. "You've built a new life for yourself, when many would have slunk home, tails between their legs. You're raising a beautiful child and doing the things you must to be happy. You're more than capable, and you'll find it." She nodded, not in agreement perhaps, but in acknowledgment that maybe, just maybe it was true. Good enough for now. He let go of her hand. And now, to make her laugh. "In the meantime," he said, allowing humor to creep into his voice, "I could always set you up with Ivan. It'd be worth it for the entertainment value, if nothing else."

"Oh, you!" she said, glaring at him, but her eyes were smiling.

Miles grinned back briefly. There was another short silence, this one much less fraught. "Will you come to the betrothal?" he asked after a moment. "It would mean so much to me."

"Yes, of course," she said.

After that, dinner with the Progressive leadership seemed almost easy. He was fairly sure that none of them would cry, for one thing. He entertained himself in the meantime by imagining their reactions, particularly that of Henri Vorvolk, who, while a valued and important member of the party as well as a close friend of Gregor's, had never been one of Miles's favorite people. Not since that nasty peculation charge that Vorvolk had tried to prove against him, back during Miles's ImpSec days. Henri knew him better than that now, and they got along well enough . . . but it still gave Miles a sense of satisfaction to imagine how utterly flummoxed he would be.

The afternoon of the dinner, Miles was dutifully resting (i.e. lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, and grumbling to himself) when his comconsole chimed. He didn't hesitate in the slightest before answering it; after all, it could be an Imperial crisis, in which case even his mother would have to bow to necessity and let him up. Probably.

It was Gregor. "Did I wake you?" he asked.

Miles blinked in confusion, and Gregor indicated his hair. Miles reached up to flatten it, wondering if he'd even combed it that morning. God, how he desperately needed some stimulation. _A small border war, that's all I'm asking_. "No, I was just resting. Some more. Are we still on for tonight?"

"Yes. Are you sure you're up to it?"

"Very sure," Miles said firmly. "I'm fine. Really."

"If you say so. That actually wasn't what I called about."

"Oh?" Miles asked, hoping that his tone didn't give away the fact that he was secretly hoping for a crucial and immediate Auditorial assignment to get him out of the bloody house. Judging by the wry smile Gregor gave him, he wasn't entirely successful.

"We finally identified the assassin."

"Ah?" Miles said, only slightly disappointed.

"Piotr Devsky." Miles raised his eyebrows. "Named after your grandfather, it would appear. He's from a small town called Rasching Brook in -"

"The Dendarii Mountains," Miles finished. "I know where it is. Ivan and I used to camp near there when we went spelunking."

"I thought I'd heard the name before," Gregor said. "I never did try spelunking, though, did I? Just hearing the two of you talk about it made me lose my breath from claustrophobia." He shook his head. "In any case, it took us so long to tag him because he wasn't a registered hospital birth. He disappeared from his family's home about six months ago, and no one had heard from him since. His family thought he'd run off to Hassadar."

"And a week and a half ago, he tried to kill you." Miles bit his lower lip. "Hmm."

"The municipal guards assigned to the eastside knew him by sight, though not by name," Gregor said. "They said he started showing up on their radar - along with dozens of others just like him - about two months ago."

Miles nodded. "Is ImpSec finding any evidence of a conspiracy?"

"Not so far. They'll keep looking, of course, but Allegre's pet theory at the moment is that he was an addict who was worried that his supply was about to be shut off, and so tried to take it out on me."

Miles frowned. "I don't know if that adds up. Jump Juice isn't known for making people violent, let alone good planners. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"True," Gregor agreed. "But what happened was a result of luck, not planning, and if he was desperate . . ."

"I suppose." Miles shrugged. "Well, thanks for letting me know."

"Of course. I'll see you tonight." There was a noise in the background, and Gregor glanced briefly over his shoulder. Someone was in the room; no _I love you_ then. Instead, he put his hand over his heart in a brief bow. Miles returned it, just as subtly, and cut the com.

There were tears at dinner that evening, but not of pain, as it turned out. They were getting quite accomplished at this revelation business, Miles decided, as he and Gregor dropped their news over coffee. It was a neatly coordinated sortie -Miles set it up with some adroit manipulation of the conversation and delicate forewarning, and Gregor supplied the _coup de grace_ in that inimitable way of his. Henri Vorvolk reverted to stuttering inarticulacy; René went still, thoughtful, and bemused; and Dono Vorrutyer coughed, choked, clapped his napkin to his mouth, and nearly slid under the table in a fit of sudden, crippling hysterics. He recovered himself eventually, after several moments of howling mirth, one finger waggling helplessly in their direction and a few tears of sheer merriment escaping his eyes.

"And I thought I made the old bastards sweat," he wheezed at last. "Great jumping junebugs, Miles, must you always outdo everybody?"

"Not my primary intention, I assure you," Miles said irritably.

"Oh?" Dono asked archly. Then he paused, looking from Miles's scowl to Gregor's slight frown, to the restraining fingers laid on Miles's wrist. "My God," he said, in an entirely different tone. "You mean to tell me you're actually _in love_?"

"Well, I should hope so," Miles snapped. "I wouldn't be doing this for any other reason, thank you."

"Is our . . . attachment a problem, Dono?" Gregor asked.

"No," Dono said slowly, almost wonderingly. "Now isn't this interesting." A curious, pleased smile curved his lips, shaded with the sort of vindictive anticipation that Miles had seen on his mother's face more than once when she discussed Barrayar's future prospects. "My congratulations," Dono said, straightening in his chair. "I assume you're telling us this now in order to inquire about our support of you, in Council and elsewhere. You have mine, and that of my District, to the extent I can command it." He bowed formally from his chair, face serious and eyes twinkling only a very little.

"Mine as well," René said, clasping his long fingered hands on the table. "I owe you, Miles, and even if I didn't, it's not like the Vorbrettens can object and maintain any sort of credibility." Miles nodded his thanks, not too surprised. René's own youngest brother shared the Vorbretten tendency to seek same-sex partners.

Everyone looked at Henri, who was staring at Gregor as if he'd never seen him before in his life. "Uh," Henri said. "That is, I. Ahem. Sire?" This last came out a nearly pitiful plea.

"Nothing is required of you," Gregor said gently. "We ask, we do not command. It is support in good conscience and full faith we need. Nothing else will do, this time."

Henri swallowed. "I had hoped you would settle on Serena after all," he said a little plaintively.

Miles valiantly suppressed a snort. If so, he had been in the extreme minority; the reign of Empress Serena Vorvolk Vorbarra would have been nothing short of stultifying.

"No," Gregor said with finality.

"Oh." Henri blinked, shook himself. "You have my support, of course," he said, with a bit more of his usual sturdiness. "Congratulations," he added, choking only a little on the word.

And that, Miles concluded with some satisfaction, was that. This was a somewhat biased, if heterogeneous, microcosm of the larger Council. Miles's own political allies, numbering as many as half the Council when he really exerted himself, had the potential to be swayed by their own partisan allegiances and plans for the future, as well as the prospect of having an ally much closer to the Imperial center. That, Miles knew, was his only real protection against the nonpartisan, potentially universal offense of Counts who did not like to see one of their own rise above his peers. _You voted to give me my Auditor's chain, so sit down and shut up_.

And as for the rest, well. There would be those who would follow gladly, like Dono, for their own reasons or simply for the novelty. There would be those who could be convinced by logic or expedience or the pursuit of the prevailing wind. And there would be those who would not be swayed by anything. Try as he might, no matter how many times Miles ran scenarios in his head and tabulated numbers, he could never be certain. The elusive human factor confounded him, and there was no remedy for that but waiting and watching. Tonight was a beginning, and only a beginning. There was still so very much to do.


	5. Chapter 5

The chosen morning dawned clear and extremely cold. Miles woke to frost on his windows, and went downstairs to find that the first fire of the season was burning in the breakfast room hearth. It made everything very cozy and comforting. Both his parents were already there, as he'd slept a bit later than he'd intended, and they smiled their morning greetings at him.

"How do you feel?" his mother asked.

"Just fine," Miles said.

"Are you sure you're up to this?" the Count asked.

Miles gave a long-suffering sigh. "You mean, am I sure that I'm up to getting dressed and taking a groundcar over to the Residence and speaking to a holovid recorder for fifteen minutes? Somehow I don't think it will overwhelm me."

"You know what we mean," the Countess replied in a steely tone.

"Yes, I'm up to it."

"Are you planning to come straight back here afterwards?" she asked.

"Um, no," Miles said, studying his bowl. "Gregor's taking the afternoon off, and I was going to stay at the Residence until the party tonight." He dared a glance up and added, "I don't think there's anywhere much safer than the Imperial Residence, even if people do end up rioting in the streets. Which I highly doubt they will."

His parents exchanged one of their glances. Miles ignored it - he was much better at doing so now that he and Gregor had Telepathic Looks of their own - and ate his groats.

"Please don't overtax yourself," the Countess said. "You'll be doing no one a favor by -" she pursed her lips delicately "-running yourself all to pieces."

He expelled a breath between his teeth. They were right; the very idea of the reception being held in his honor was exhausting. "How about I agree to leave the party tonight whenever you do?" he offered. "Is that acceptable?"

"Yes," his mother said promptly. "Thank you for being so sensible." She kissed the top of his head on her way to the teapot.

"

We've got a new message from Mark," his father said into the ensuing, masticatory pause. "He sends his best and tells you to stop stepping in front of knives, you damn idiot - his exact words."

"Me or Gregor," Miles protested, swallowing quickly. "You'd have done the same. What else did he say?"

"He and Kareen have apparently set a date. Next winter, and they swear they'll really go through with it this time."

"Here or on Beta Colony?" Miles asked.

"Here."

"A year is quite a long time to be engaged," Miles pointed out, picturing the months of calculated distance and frenetic activity ahead of him.

"They like to do things in their own time," Cordelia said. "They'll both be done with school by then. Mark says they'll probably come back for your ceremony and simply stay the six months until their own. Saves them having to plan a wedding long distance. They send their congratulations, by the way."

"Sounds smart," Miles said. He stood up and added, "I'll record a message to go out with yours later. I'd better get dressed."

No House uniform for this, of course. The last thing he wanted to emphasize was the fact that he was a Count's heir. Not that people wouldn't remember anyway, but there was no reason to shove it in their faces. He chose one of the gray suits that he often wore for Auditorial business, and dressed with unusual care. He stood in front of his full-length mirror for a moment, scrutinizing himself closely. His color was just about back to normal, he thought, and the fading wound, beneath jacket and shirt, was a healthy pink. Still, his insides tugged and ached at too deep a breath. Miles tried it, and then again, silently urging the damaged tissue to heal. He pressed one hand flat against the mirror. It was trembling finely, as they continued to do off and on. It would pass, Miles told himself, along with the ache in his chest and the lingering fog of exhaustion. He cracked his knuckles - it didn't help - and, on the third try, managed to activate his wristcom.

"M'lord?" Pym responded.

"I'm ready, Pym. Could you bring the car around?"

"Of course, m'lord."

He was five steps down from the top of the stairs when his right knee buckled. He gasped and grabbed the railing, holding himself up. A quick glance down told him that, by some miracle of fate, no one had seen the stumble. They would certainly never let him out again if they had. He drew a deep breath, straightened up again, and stepped carefully down onto the next riser.

He set his weight cautiously, but his legs were steady beneath him. By the time he was halfway down he began to relax. He picked up the pace, thoughts already moving on to the rigors of the day ahead.

He was nearly at the bottom when the knee gave out, not so much buckling as simply turning to jelly. Miles swore, lurching forward. All he could do was control the fall, and Armsman Pym opened the hall door just in time to see him sliding down the stairs to land on his rear on the black and white tiles.

"M'lord!" said Pym, springing to help him.

"I'm all right," said Miles, rather breathlessly.

"Are you certain?" Pym asked, drawing him to his feet. "What happened?"

"I slipped," he said. "These boots are new. And maybe someone over-polished the stairs." And then, because Pym didn't look entirely convinced, he added, "I haven't walked in about two weeks, you know. Makes sense that I'm out of practice."

"Are you certain you're all right?" Pym asked, and Miles was reminded that, personal oaths notwithstanding, his Armsman was perfectly capable of going over his head and appealing to the higher authority known as _mother_. Who just might throw a wrench into today's plans; she'd done far more outrageous things in the name of an injured cub.

"Yes, yes," Miles said. "I'm fine. Just a couple of bruises and a case of sprained pride." He was standing all right now. He took a few careful, experimental steps. Everything felt normal. That's what came of too much lazing about in bed, Miles thought, and was gladder than ever that he was about to do something about that. "I'll be late," he said, glancing pointedly at the car visible through the open door.

It took half the short drive to the Residence to figure out why he was feeling so odd. He nearly laughed out loud when he finally identified the mingling of nauseous terror and soaring elation as the normal pre-battle response. It had been a long time. But no nerve disrupters or high-powered explosives this time - at least he certainly hoped not. This time he would have to stare down the muzzles of a handful of holocameras, and later on in the evening there would be the gauntlet of high Vor society, in all its staggering strangeness.

Miles retraced the paths of his thinking for the thousandth time. Things had not been nearly as simple as he had airily assured Gregor they would be. The previous few days had been a subdued whirlwind of activity. By now, word of an imminent Imperial betrothal was the talk of half the planet. It was very strange, Miles reflected, letting go. They had held a strangle-grip on themselves for four years - loosening that hold and allowing the truth to slip through their fingers, even in controlled bursts, was nerve-wracking. It had occurred to him the evening before that he could no longer count the people who knew their secret. The sheer scope of preparation, starting with Gregor's formidable public relations team, was staggering. It was difficult to maintain the fine balance between control and disaster when it felt like the world was running away out from under him.

There was an atmosphere of suppressed scramble at the Residence. Miles smiled a little grimly as he wafted, entirely unremarked, through the chaos of staff and attendants and servants. The vast majority of these people knew only that there was an Imperial bride somewhere about, not who it was. According to Ivan, speculation on that score had reached a staggering total in the millions of Marks in the past few days alone.

_I wonder if it's too late to put in an anonymous wager? Could make a killing_ . . .

By contrast, Gregor's inner office was blessedly still and quiet. Gregor stood in a small knot of men near the windows, speaking seriously to Allegre, Vortala, and a wiry fellow that Miles didn't know with colonel's tabs and ImpSec pins. Gregor's head turned the moment Miles stepped in the room, and he dismissed a half dozen hovering staff with a quick gesture. Gregor's cat, perched on the desk, was the only one to ignore the command. He stared rather evilly at Miles, then turned and began pointedly licking himself.

"There you are," Gregor said as Miles crossed the room to join them. Out of necessity, they were not in the habit of displays of any sort, even in front of close friends. But this time Gregor caught up his hand without hesitation, holding it between his own for a moment before tucking it through his arm. "Miles, this is Colonel Michael Inceri. You might remember the name - he was the one who handled the mess with the stolen imploder lance prototype. He'll be heading your personal security detail from now on."

Miles blinked, momentarily astounded that a detail of this magnitude had slipped right by him. He'd been much more under ImpSec's thumb in the past few years, but, all things considered, it had been nothing beyond what would be expected for any politically active Imperial Auditor who also happened to be the son of Aral Vorkosigan. That generally comfortable state of affairs, secure without being overly invasive, was about to come to an end.

Inceri, he realized with surprise, was only now being brought in on the exact nature of his new assignment. Miles could only imagine - the man must have been waiting for some young Vor maiden, not a seasoned political actor with a ready-made cast of enemies. To the man's credit, he recovered himself after only a minuscule boggle, and offered soft-spoken greetings. Miles shot a quick look up at Gregor to find him watching the byplay intently. Not an oversight then, but rather one of Gregor's more devious methods of testing the mettle of unknown personnel.

"A pleasure," Miles said, returning a polite nod. "You did a good job with the imploder lance affair."

"Thank you, my Lord Auditor," Inceri returned. He left it there, with no fumbled dismissals about luck or good help, and Miles provisionally decided he approved. Inceri was what passed for a rising star in the intelligence community - his brilliant successes known only to those very few who could truly appreciate them. Miles wondered whether the man considered his new duty to be an honor or a chore, and decided he would have to ask at some point.

"We can discuss particulars later," General Allegre broke in. "But if Colonel Inceri is acceptable to you, he will coordinate your personal security force, effective immediately. We should also go over changes to procedure at Vorkosigan House, and you can meet the team we've selected."

"Right," said Miles. He shot a wry look up at Gregor, who looked particularly bland and uninformative. _A lot of effort already gone into this choice. Why am I only hearing about it now_?

Before he could voice the question, however adroitly, Lady Alys rapped and entered. Reassuringly, she seemed only moderately harried. "Sitzen would like to go over both of your statements a few more times before we start," she said without preamble. "The holovid techs are almost ready in the Green Room, and we'll need to do at least one check for sound and lighting. Miles dear, you look very nice - that gray always looks so lovely next to Gregor's black - but we will have to do something with your hair."

Miles lifted a hand to his head. "We will?"

Alys sniffed. "I should think so. Don't worry, though - I expected this and I've brought in the best stylist on the continent. He's waiting in the peach sitting room."

"All right," said Miles, resigned. "Apparently," he added to the rest of the room, "the security briefing will have to wait on my hair."

"Now don't get smart with me," Alys said briskly. "Gregor, they're still waiting for your final decisions on a few matters of phrasing. We should get that straightened out before anything else." She glanced at the clock over the desk and took a breath. This was not to be a live, real-time broadcast, but they still needed to get the recording to the major news distributors by early afternoon.

"We'll go talk to Sitzen right now," Gregor said soothingly. "General, Colonels, we can pick up this discussion shortly." Alys pointed them up the corridor, then hurried off on her own errand, skirts snapping.

"So," Miles said in a low voice as they headed up the corridor together. He glanced back once to find General Allegre splitting off, but Vortala and Inceri falling in step behind them, intent and watchful even here. "Not that I'm complaining exactly, but I really wouldn't have minded picking out my own security man."

"I know," Gregor said, with a good try at contrition. "But you've been on bed rest, and we didn't want to bother you with it." Miles waited. "It was also suggested," Gregor added after several beats of silence, "that if you made the selection on your own . . . having a talent for choosing good personnel also means you can choose good people you can walk all over."

"Suggested by whom, exactly?"

"Well, your father."

"Huh."

"Also your mother. And Simon. And the thought had crossed my mind."

"All right, all right," Miles muttered irritably.

"Why is it," Gregor asked lowly, "that you may defend me to the last in the name of duty, but I must worry that doing the same for you is intrusive?" He took a quick breath, and Miles held his silence, a little startled by the flash of temper. It occurred to him for the first time that Gregor might actually be angry with him, neatly healing scar and all. "In any case," Gregor added in a more moderate tone, "I really do think Inceri is a good choice. He's very talented, and I have a feeling you'll get along."

"Hmm," said Miles, irritated with his own irritation. He couldn't be on top of everything, apparently, and there was nothing to be done about it now. He couldn't help adding, however, "I haven't ducked my security in four years. And you can't possibly be thinking of arguing that it wasn't justified then."

Gregor coughed pointedly. "As I recall, it was only a year and a half ago -"

"They were getting in my way," Miles said. "Also completely justified. I finished up the case, didn't I?" He winced a little in recollection. That had been a nasty bit of business, a ring of ethically and financially questionable associations that had spanned the ranks of the service right up to the General Staff's office. Out of sheer frustration, Miles had eventually ducked his overzealous protectors and done a little invasive poking around. Gregor had been about as furious as Miles had ever seen him. At least after the cuts were sealed up and the new skin grafted on, anyway. "And sometimes things just happen," he added, voice gentling. "I may have been . . . less than wise in the past, but don't do me the dishonor of suggesting that what I did two weeks ago was anything but entirely justified." He shut his lips on anything further. He had a double duty to Gregor, he had come to realize: the duty of a sworn subject, and the duty of someone who was loved very deeply. The two didn't always align, and Miles could neither regret his decisions in those instances, nor begrudge Gregor his resentment over it.

Gregor's lips tightened ever so slightly. "I mean no dishonor," he said. "But things are different, starting today. Try it with Inceri," he murmured as they approached the Green Room and the waiting horde. "See what happens."

They were forced to leave it there, perhaps for the best. They were both right, Miles thought as they were swarmed with last minute details. And today did mark a radical change in their lives; it was only natural that there would be some tension.

The next several hours passed in a blur. Miles put in his thoughts on the much discussed draft remarks, then found himself swept upstairs by Lady Alys for a vigorous round of what could only be called _primping_. When he finally emerged, creased, trimmed, polished, and reeling, it was Gregor's turn.

Miles played a brief mental game, tagging those in the Imperial entourage who hadn't known about him. It wasn't difficult in most cases, and Miles kept a half-joking, half-serious mental tally of reactions - astonished, wary, thoughtful, disinterested, horrified. It was a credit to their four years of extraordinary caution that it took some people so bloody long to tumble to reality. He had become very much a part of the Imperial show, and the minute mental adjustment required to change the angle of perception, to turn illusion into fact, seemed quite a leap for some.

At last he found himself seated on the formal loveseat in the Green Room. He spent several moments contemplating the throng, from camera crew to PR staff to security, trying to slot each of them into one of his mental categories. At last, however, he gave it up as futile. The question was not what every individual in this room thought, but what Barrayar as a collective thought. Not to mention Sergyar and - _gulp_ \- Komarr. For all the preparation, for all the planning and discussion and time, Miles could admit to himself in that moment, as the action rose to a fever pitch around him and he sat, a still, tranquil island in the middle of it, that he honestly had no idea. You could never see what would happen until it did, to twist one of Gregor's favorite aphorisms. There was care and there were wits and there was downright guile, but at some point or other came an end, a cusp, a simple choice - to jump or not to jump. He had a moment of deep, echoing panic then, wondering what the hell he had been thinking. The sheer audacity of his arrogance, of the assumption that he could not only pull this off, but count a victory for progress at the same time was stunning. _Fifteen years of peace - relative peace - and I could bring it all crashing down in one afternoon just because_ -

But then Gregor was there, sharp but contained in black and silver, cutting through the crowd and joining Miles with his usual unhurried economy of purpose. Whatever had gone wrong earlier - nerves or worries or simple disagreement - had melted away. Gregor had in many ways built this moment, and Gregor had chosen, waited, believed . . . A Vor lord's way of life was in essence risk in service. _I would rather risk the leap because you ask it of me than hang back, safe, because I am afraid_.

The last frantic minutes broke over them, focused but hectic. Miles put an end to it all when a debate rose about exactly how many inches apart they should sit on the loveseat, and someone actually brought out a measuring tape. Miles threatened to ignore the script all together and make it up as the whim took him, and with a quiet word from Gregor, there were no more postponements.

Silence and calm descended, and after that it was only words, brief and simple as they were. The cadences of the script were familiar, but what had previously been utilitarian phrases and makeweight sentiments took on, in the alchemy of the moment, a sudden beauty. Miles could well imagine them in a familiar, well-tutored hand, simple and effective and somehow dead center. He wondered just what part Gregor had played in the writing. Halfway through the first and only take of the broadcast, Miles became aware that their hands had found each other and were gripping tightly.

"I came to want to share my life with someone, at last," Gregor said.

"I am humbled and honored," said Miles.

He looked up once, past the focused glare of the spotlights and the blinking indicator where he was supposed to direct his remarks. He could dimly make out the crowd of people, magically hushed and still, watching. Ivan stood towards the front, next to Lady Alys and Simon Illyan, whose presence Miles had previously been unaware of. It might have been the flare of spotlights, but Miles thought he saw something glimmering on his aunt's cheek, and a soft, suspicious shimmer in Simon's eyes.

And then it was over. The holocameras were turned off, the bright lights dimmed, and a collective breath was expelled. Gregor began to rise, and Miles moved hurriedly to follow.

"Well," Gregor said, directing his remarks to his ever-canny PR head, Sitzen. "Will that do?"

"Uh -" The man shook himself a little, ducked his head, and with unaccustomed awkwardness bowed. The sweep of his hand included Miles in the gesture. "It was - yes. That will do. Thank you, Sire. Lord Vorkosigan."

Gregor nodded, thanked the assembled for their assistance, and drew Miles out with a hand at his elbow. "Allegre headed back to ImpSec HQ," he said conversationally as they turned up the hall towards the lifts. "He'll be in touch if there are any . . . disturbances."

"Right," Miles said. It was going to be a tense evening for Allegre. And soon the news would hit Komarr, like a delayed secondary detonation. "Should we - ?" he began.

"No." They stepped into the lift. Their heights were suddenly equalized, Miles's boots dangling at Gregor's shins. "We've done our part," Gregor said, and shrugged. "Nothing to do now but -"

"Yeah," said Miles.

Gregor's eyebrow shot up. "You know what I was going to say?"

"Isn't that hard to guess."

"I was going to say," Gregor said with sudden seriousness as they stepped out of the lift, "that it's doubtful we will see each other alone again for quite a long time, and that we should raise the drawbridge and let the mob rage."

"Oh," said Miles. "Quite right."

*~*~*

If he weren't so bloody tense, Ivan decided, he'd be having a great time. This was by far the most fun Vorish gathering he'd attended in years, at least since he'd been stupid enough to let Miles talk him into the whole Heir farce. He could remember the occasion with perfect, horrific clarity. Miles had ambushed him with it just a few weeks before Midsummer, year one in the era of Miles and Gregor.

"I'd rather let my mother pick my wife for me," Ivan had yelped, outraged. "I'd rather be assigned to wildlife watch duty on Sergyar. I'd rather - Miles. The Imperial Heir is not an innocent bystander. He's not a bystander at all. He's a - a - centerstander! And the politics - I _hate_ politics, Miles!"

"Exactly," Miles had said, utterly ruthless. "You'll be truly terrible at it. I can't think of anyone better."

Ivan had argued. He'd logicked and ranted and pled. He'd almost cried. But in the end it had all been for naught. Miles had looked up at him, eyes very serious.

"Who do you trust, to stand within arm's reach of the Imperium?" he'd asked.

Ivan had frowned, squinted. "Well, Gregor, of course."

"Who else?"

"Your father." He'd paused, chewing his lip. "You, I suppose. You're third in line, when it comes right down to it."

"That all?" Miles had pressed.

Ivan had shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. "Yes. I suppose so."

"My list is the same as yours," Miles said, pacing once across his sitting room, then returning to stand before Ivan. "It takes an extraordinary person to serve in this particular way - to be so close, and yet not reach. Gregor, who's uncannily good at knowing just where to put his weight. My father, who stepped back when it was required. Me . . . hell, I suppose I'd be the lesser of many evils. It's a short list." He'd looked up then, smiled with that godawful charm of his. "The only difference between your list and my list is that you're on mine. Ivan, please. I wouldn't ask if it weren't absolutely essential."

That had been the end of it, though Ivan had put up a bit more fuss just because it wasn't good for Miles to have people give in to him too easily. He might develop an accurate sense of his own charm, and then where would they all be? "You do realize," he'd said, "that if Gregor declares an heir, anyone with half a brain will conclude he doesn't intend to marry, and most people will go a step further and decide he . . . inherited some unfortunate proclivities."

"That's part of the point," Miles had said, smiling in a way that put Ivan in mind of a cat lying in wait for a mouse. "The problem, of course, is how to prepare Barrayar for the prospect of, um, us, in careful stages without cluing anyone in. Getting people used to the idea of Gregor's preferences will be very helpful."

And so Ivan had found himself, disbelieving, kneeling in the center of the Council chamber that Midsummer, listening to the oral roll call of his confirmation like a man at his sentencing. It had been a short, vicious battle. Half of the Council, who hadn't known him personally, had screamed bloody murder. The other half, those who were well acquainted with him, screamed even louder. Gregor, uncharacteristically putting himself personally at the center of a political conflict, rode it out with just the right amount of firm patience. Miles, the swine, made a deliberate public show of dubiously accepting his Emperor's clearly bizarre whim.

And starting that day, life had required a great deal more effort. It had been relatively easy for Captain Vorpatril not to have any political opinions - he just had to keep his head down and clap his hands over his ears, when necessary. Lord Ivan Vorpatril, Imperial Heir, had to expend a truly Herculean effort to keep himself from being dragged, kicking and screaming, right into the roiling center of every conflict. Damn Miles, anyway. Even the one advantage, the sudden, almost overwhelming attention of every eligible Vor maiden within a five-district radius, had grown wearisome. They actually wanted him to _propose_ before they would sleep with him, and Ivan, astounded and horrified, had discovered that with his new status, the correlation between the number of dates and the relative frequency of actually getting laid was suddenly and painfully inverse.

Tonight, however, was glorious. Tonight, in the large ballroom off the glass hall, with what Ivan's jaundiced eye calculated as the most well attended Imperial gathering in a decade. When the rumors had begun spreading and invitations had gone out, everyone and his closest hundred relatives had wanted to get a glimpse of the Empress-to-be. After the vidcast this afternoon, everyone on the planet wanted a hell of a lot more than a glimpse. Hardly anyone was noticing Ivan's presence at all, and even when they did it was only to make inquiries about Miles's history/plans/genetic status/shoe size. All Ivan had to do was wander around, listen, and occasionally say something nice. It was brilliant.

". . . a bloody transparent power grab, and by that little mutant -"

Ivan looked around for the origin of that one, spotted Count Vorville holding forth in a low voice to a small huddle of his conservative cronies, and steered clear. Nothing short of a stun blast to the base of the skull would improve that one's disposition.

". . . needs a woman's touch, to keep things civilized."

"We haven't had an Empress in over fifty years. Clearly we'll survive without one . . ."

Few people were even pretending to be discussing something other than Miles and Gregor. Ivan craned his neck, and caught a glimpse of them, seated together at the head of the glass hall, receiving guests as they arrived under the combined supervision of Lady Alys and Delia Galeni. The line was slowing to a trickle, Ivan saw. Good thing, too - he was starving, and Miles was beginning to get that premonitory, pensive look of his that meant he was considering swinging from the chandelier or something.

". . . you voted to give him his Auditor's chain. Being Gregor's consort seems hardly different. Less power, really, when you come right down to it . . ."

"Lord Ivan?"

He turned, nodded a polite greeting to Aleksander Vorob'yev, Count in all but name as his father's wasting illness progressed.

"I wanted to ask you," Vorob'yev said, clasping his hands with characteristic anxiety. The man was a born moderate, more by dint of being psychologically unwilling to commit himself on any matter more complex than brandy or bourbon, rather than from any political opinion. At least that was what Miles had said - dammit, how had Ivan absorbed so much politics from the little bugger, despite all his efforts?

"Yes?" he said encouragingly.

"I wanted to ask you what you think of your cousin's, ah, prospective union."

"I think they make a lovely couple," Ivan said, with a bare minimum of facetiousness.

Vorob'yev rocked uneasily on his heels, and Ivan wondered just what the man had expected him to say. "My daughter thinks it's terribly romantic," Vorob'yev said at last. "Something right off the holovids - the Emperor falls in love with a hero."

"They've already had multiple requests for permission to make a holovid drama out of it," Ivan said, grinning. It was this very response Miles had been hoping to capitalize on. The wording of their announcement was an exercise in subtle suggestion, implying but never outright stating that the stabbing had been the precipitating factor in a whirlwind romance.

"People don't like secrets," Miles had said. "Mostly because it means no one thought they were important enough to be let in on them. People do, however, get ridiculously sloppy over the saving of lives and honor and so on and so on." Ivan had only rolled his eyes. Miles should know - he was one of the most outrageously tenderhearted people Ivan had ever known, when he forgot to pretend otherwise.

"Ah," Vorob'yev said, noncommittally. "Yes. I'm sure. Excuse me." He wandered off, still frowning.

". . . must love him very much."

"What makes you think that?"

"Oh, honestly. Why else would anyone marry Vorkosigan? They'd have to be completely starkers over him to even . . ."

Well. That, at least, was accurate enough.

Dinner was interminable. Ivan was delighted to find himself booted a ways down the social order at Gregor's table, but some strategic minded little git had placed him in the thick of enemy territory. _Three guesses, and the first two don't count_. Ivan had the Vortugalovs on one side and a small cadre of tight-lipped ministers on the other. The nearest friendly face was Dono bloody Vorrutyer, halfway up the table, and he kept snickering - bloody giggling! - into his napkin, for whatever cracked reason.

Ivan said supportive things when someone aimed anything particularly sarcastic in his direction, drank a bit too much wine, and battled indigestion. The highlight of the evening came when Gregor rose to offer a toast in Miles's honor. Ivan stood with everyone else, enjoying the genuine flush Gregor elicited in his cousin's face, and kept a covert ear on the stream of undervoiced invective issuing from the table behind him.

. . . could one do that with a camel?

Dancing followed. Gregor and Miles, neither looking particularly pleased, opened it together. Ivan found himself delivered by his mother into the hands of one of the Vorbataille daughters, and the evening passed comfortably enough, everything considered.

Gregor, as was his habit, left shortly after midnight. He made the rounds before he went upstairs, thanking everyone for coming and for their support with a calm warmth that somehow managed to convey the fact that said support was not optional. Miles stayed at his side throughout, but waited a decorous half hour after Gregor's departure before summoning Ivan with a jerk of the chin and taking his own leave.

"That went . . . er, interestingly," said Ivan as they exited the ballroom.

"Mmm," said Miles noncommittally.

"Well," said Ivan, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I guess I'll be going, then."

"Not so fast," said Miles. "Come upstairs and have a nightcap with Gregor and me."

Ivan sighed. "Do I have to?"

"You know," said Miles musingly as he headed for the east wing stairs, "in a few months you'll have to do everything I say, or commit treason."

"I have to do everything you say _now_," Ivan grumbled, following him.

"True," said Miles brightly. "But as an Auditor I could just ruin your life if you annoyed me. As Gregor's, er, whatever, I could have you executed for it."

"You ruin my life when I _do_ do what you tell me," said Ivan morosely.

Miles paused at the top of the stairs and glanced down at him. His features were still for a moment, all signs of the post-party high spirits gone. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I know you never -"

Ivan cut him off with an impatient gesture and a dismissive noise. "Forget it."

"No," said Miles thoughtfully, turning away and trotting up the corridor. "I don't think I will. And I know Gregor won't."

Ivan followed him silently, their gratitude settling uncomfortably around his shoulders. What the hell had they expected from him - that he'd say no? Like he could have. When Gregor asked, you bloody leapt, and Miles was . . . Miles.

Gregor was not alone in his private sitting room. Ivan glanced around, checking off Allegre, Miles's parents, his own mother and Simon, a few of the PR chaps, Duv Galeni . . . this wasn't a nightcap, it was a council of war.

Gregor turned at once, securing himself a seat on the arm of the chair Miles flung himself into. He leaned down, one hand closing warmly over Miles's for a moment as they spoke in low tones. Ivan backed up against the wall next to the fireplace and willed himself a statue. He had a horrible feeling work assignments were about to be passed out.

"Well," said Gregor, straightening. His quiet voice cut instantly across the low buzz of conversation. "Do we have the wolf by the ears, or is he about to rip out our throats?"

"Lovely metaphor, dear," Aunt Cordelia said.

"I would have gone for an old fashioned powder keg, myself," said Miles.

Gregor lifted both hands. "The question remains."

There was a brief pause. At last Galeni cleared his throat. "Well, the Komarran response has thus far been . . . relatively subdued."

"They're not rioting," said Miles dryly. He paused. "Yet."

"Guy?" said Gregor.

Allegre made a noncommittal noise. "There's been no sign of large scale violence. We did have that small incident down in the Vorhalas district, but it was handled . . . adroitly."

"I think Count Vorville would like to strangle me," said Miles brightly. "But then again, he's wanted to strangle me pretty much since I got into politics."

"What was the tone of the talk?" Gregor asked. He swept the room with a glance, which landed solidly on Ivan.

"What?" said Ivan helplessly. "There was some very creative cursing and some audible teeth grinding." He shrugged, unsure what else was required of him. He was no intelligence agent - to hear his superiors talk sometimes, he was no intelligent agent.

"Hmm," said Gregor thoughtfully. "It seems to me that what you're all saying is so far so good, but don't hold your breath."

There was a universal shifting and nodding.

"On that subject," said Ivan's mother, drawing out a flimsy from thin air, "a number of people approached me tonight to issue invitations to one or both of you." She perused her list with a keen eye. "This is just preliminary, of course, but I'm hoping to have a schedule drawn up by tomorrow afternoon. It should cover the next month at least."

Miles looked suddenly dismayed. "But I'm recovering," he said, casting appealing eyes up at Gregor.

"Oh?" said Ivan's mother, before Gregor could respond. "You looked spry enough when you were stepping on Gregor's toes. And that's another thing - you are both excellent dancers with other partners. Why is it, when we put you together, you look like . . ." She pursed her lips, apparently lacking an appropriately combative simile.

"Like they're playing tug-of-war?" Aunt Cordelia suggested.

"Hmm," his mother said, expressively.

"Right," said Miles, slapping both knees and moving to rise. "If this is going to turn into an exercise in artistic criticism, I'd rather take my chances with Vorville."

"We're not quite through," said Ivan's mother, ominously rattling her flimsy. "Sitzen and I have discussed the idea of recording an interview with the two of you sometime around the betrothal."

"An interview . . ." said Gregor, "with a reporter?" He blinked. "Do we do that now?"

"Well, he certainly wouldn't be allowed to ask just anything, of course," Sitzen put in hurriedly. "We'd have a pre-approved list of questions."

"It could be very useful," Ivan's mother said. "In general outline, it would cover your plans for the future, a few details of your, ah, romance - tasteful details, that is."

"Do we have any of those?" Miles asked, looking up at Gregor.

"Er," said Gregor, flushing faintly.

Ivan's mother ignored them. "They'll also ask for details on the proposal," she sailed on.

"The what?" said Gregor blankly.

"When you asked Miles to marry you," she explained patiently. "When it happened - we'll fudge on that one a bit. Where you were, how you did it."

Gregor frowned. "Well, I didn't propose. Miles did."

She sighed. "How entirely unsurprising. But we really can't tell that to a reporter."

"I did not," Miles said, affronted. "You were the one who went and put your hands between mine on your balcony."

Alys's eyebrows shot up. "Or that," she murmured.

"That wasn't a proposal," Gregor said. "It was a confession."

"Got us here eventually, didn't it?"

"It _was_ you," Gregor said triumphantly. "That night in the kitchen, with your strategy."

Miles frowned. "Yes, but -" He turned suddenly and jabbed a finger at Alys. "It was _her_. In your office, remember, when she said we'd have to have this great bloody wedding?"

Alys pursed her lips. "Nor can we say that I proposed for you," she said severely. "Please tell me you can come up with a more . . . acceptable answer."

There was a pause.

"In the hospital," Gregor said at last. "After you'd woken up you said you wanted to go through with it."

"We still have the problem of person," Alys said, with iron patience.

"It was Miles in the study with the nerve disrupter," Ivan muttered, and was summarily ignored.

"All right," sighed Gregor. "I did it properly in the gardens at Vorkosigan House, after Miles came home. There were roses, a decorous exchange of sentiments, perhaps even some chaste hand-holding."

"It was so romantic," Miles sighed swoonily. "He's the man of my dreams. How could I possibly refuse him?"

Gregor looked disturbed; Aunt Cordelia, amused; Sitzen, marginally pleased.

"Don't flutter, dear," said Ivan's mother, glancing up from her flimsy. "You look entirely vapid."

"Are we _done_?" Miles asked.

"Please forward a preliminary schedule to both of us tomorrow," said Gregor, pre-empting anything further. Ivan sighed a little enviously. Gregor was the only person in the known universe who could try to put an end to a conversation with Lady Alys Vorpatril and expect it to stick. Usually.

There was a general shuffling and murmuring. Ivan stayed where he was so his mother would leave first and couldn't corner him on the way out and give him homework. Miles stood, but held Gregor down with a hand on his arm. Ivan watched them, an unfamiliar feeling swelling uncomfortably in his chest as Gregor turned, blocking everyone's view, and Miles's small hands slid momentarily up and around his shoulders. What was that like, Ivan wondered as Gregor straightened and Miles stepped around him. Their eyes lingered on each other, and Miles seemed disinclined to go. What was it like, being in love with someone who loved you back?

Ivan shook his head. Damn if this wasn't going to be one fantastically sentimental show, if it was already getting to him.


	6. Chapter 6

The next week was every bit as dreadful as Ivan had anticipated. Not even the constant recollection that this was all for a purpose, that once the two of them were married off and reproducing all his problems would be over, could help. He found his inner monologue entirely taken up with a combination of grumpy exhaustion, self-pity, and the occasional and sudden appeal of shooting himself in the foot. Soldiers on the frontlines did it all the time, and it seemed to work for their purposes . . .

Gregor's PR legions kept him on the move constantly. Ivan felt rather like a traveling salesman, out pounding the pavement and peddling his wares. Wares, he noted with some satisfaction, who were having as little fun as he was. Miles was more often than not on the same schedule as Ivan, and Gregor was starting to develop the slightly hunted look of a rabbit sensing danger.

"I don't know," said Ivan, staring morosely into his beer. "It's hard to tell what anyone's thinking nowadays."

"I think I liked it better when people just called me foul names to my face when they were annoyed with me," said Miles. He pushed his drink away and reached for the water pitcher.

Galeni, seated between them at the small corner table in the upstairs parlor of the Bird and Bear, only grunted. This was the first evening in over a week that Ivan could remember having to himself, and by _to himself_ he meant having a few strategically visible drinks with Miles and their great friend Duv Galeni at this popular watering hole for upper crust Komarran businessfolk and their tentative partners among the Vor.

"There's Prichard Delany," Galeni said suddenly.

Miles seemed to shrink in his seat. "Please tell me he's not coming over here," he muttered. "Does the man talk about anything besides tax structures?"

"No," said Galeni, flatly.

Miles set his glass down with a thump. He pressed two fingers to his forehead as if pushing back a headache. Ivan squinted at him in the dimly lit room. Miles looked like hell, skin grayish and eyes shadowed. A seizure, probably, and not surprising with the pace he'd been keeping since the announcement.

A blast of unexpected noise filled the room as a knot of men pushed in through the door. Ivan glanced over his shoulder to see a mixed group of younger Vor sons, middling-rank officers, and Byerly Vorrutyer. It was just past sunset, but they already looked well into their cups. Someone spotted Miles right away, and a rush of whispers and unsubtle pointing followed. They found themselves a group of tables at the center of the room, and Ivan checked his chrono, wondering when he could go home and get some sleep. Such an exciting life he led nowadays . . .

"You all right, Miles?" Galeni asked.

Ivan glanced over, startled to find his cousin now digging his fingers into his temples with vicious intensity.

"Fine," said Miles irritably, dropping his hands. "I think I'm just -" he broke off, and Ivan turned to see By's delegation on its way over, apparently already done with the first round. Or fourth or fifth, as the case might be. They crowded around the table before Ivan quite knew what was happening. He caught a quick glimpse of Colonel Inceri at the next table, sliding to the edge of his seat, looking ready to leap at a moment's notice.

"Can we help you, gentlemen?" Galeni asked politely.

"Lord Auditor," said Thierry Vorsoisson. He bowed, stumbled, and slapped both hands down hard on the table. Their glasses rattled and Miles jumped like a startled cat.

"Yes?" said Miles. Ivan, who was accustomed to his tricks, could see him controlling the urge to crane his neck to be able to meet Vorsoisson's eyes. It would only make him look shorter.

"Wanted to ask you," said Thierry. He blinked myopically for a moment, and his older brother elbowed him aside.

"What's it gonna do for us?" Mathieu Vorsoisson asked, leaning over the table. Galeni half-rose, and Ivan leaned forward himself, nerves on edge.

"Beg pardon?" said Miles.

"You," said Mathieu. "What'll it get us, if we put our hands between yours?"

Miles reached for the pitcher, bracing it with his other hand to pour as if he were unsure of his grip. He took his time about it, and the crowd began to shift restlessly. Glancing up, Ivan accidentally caught Byerly's eye. The man looked suddenly and astonishingly sober. His hands were hooked casually through the arms of his closest companions as if ready to pull them away, and Ivan wondered if By was getting as bad a feeling as he was.

The silence was growing too long, and Ivan coughed. "I think what you'll be getting is the pleasure of not having committed treason," he said.

Mathieu turned to him. "And that's another thing, Vorpatril. Why're you going along and letting your cousin here disinherit you?"

"I can't wait," said Ivan frankly.

Galeni snorted, Mathieu blinked, and the small crowd shifted and murmured uneasily.

"And I doubt," said Miles, looking up at last and sweeping the assembled with a single, devastatingly disdainful look, "that any of you will ever get the opportunity to find out, anyway."

A sudden silence fell, in which the intake of air through Ivan's teeth sounded very loud. Only Counts, heirs, high government officials, honorees, and top-ranking officers ever swore personal oaths to the Emperor and Empress. In this particular group of thirds-in-line, there weren't too many options for advancement. What the hell was Miles thinking?

Mathieu straightened up, drawing his dignity drunkenly around him. "Well, I think that answers that, lads," he said, staring at Miles. His teeth flashed in a sudden snarl. "And who'd want to get down on their knees for the Emperor's catamite, anyway."

Ivan stood so quickly his chair screeched back. Galeni came up as well, and Ivan saw Colonel Inceri do the same. In the back of his mind a calm, rational voice was suggesting that perhaps now would be a good time to leave. The rest of him, however, was much more interested in knocking some teeth out.

Miles slowly rose, and Colonel Inceri was abruptly at his side. But Miles didn't even cast him a glance as he stepped up onto his chair and stared levelly at Mathieu. His expression was utterly blank, and the satisfied malice on Mathieu's face crumbled slowly to

confusion.

"Miles -" Ivan began. He never got to finish before it all went to hell. He knew he didn't see it coming - he was sure Mathieu didn't.

*~*~*

Kevi tapped on his door after Gregor's last official appointment of the day. When it was possible, Gregor opted for unscheduled office time in the evening, a chance to read or to slip in anything that couldn't be fitted elsewhere in his day.

"Lord Vorkosigan would like to know if you have a few minutes for him," said Kevi, in the tone one might say, 'There's a herd of elephants in the atrium.'

Gregor swiveled away from his comconsole, pleased and a little confused. He hadn't actually seen Miles in a few days. But the man knew his habits as well as anybody, and he knew he was welcome to come straight in (his tendency to do so always discomposed the staff, no matter what Gregor said). Gregor had missed his company lately, even if it was only the two of them reading in silence on the sofa with Miles's feet in his lap.

"Of course," he said. "Show him in."

Kevi nodded, looked as if he would have liked to add something, then withdrew. There was an unusually long pause before Miles appeared.

Gregor stood, alarmed. "What the hell happened?"

Miles's jacket was wrinkled, his collar askew, and one cheekbone was darkening with what promised to be a spectacular bruise.

"I'm fine," he said, letting the door fall shut behind him and coming to stand before the desk. Gregor would have liked to go and see for himself, but Miles gestured him back into his chair. There was something funny in the way he was standing, a set of posture that was simultaneously penitent and entirely unapproachable.

"Your face?" said Gregor, sitting with reluctance. "Did someone _hit_ you?"

Miles fingered his cheek and winced. "No. I think one of the agents elbowed me accidentally in the, erm, mess."

"Mess?" Gregor repeated. "You were just supposed to be having some drinks tonight, weren't you?"

"Yes," said Miles. "It got . . . messy. And, erm, you might be hearing about it on the news this evening."

Gregor began to get a sinking feeling. "What happened, exactly?"

Miles actually shuffled his feet. "Well, we got cornered by a bunch of drunken Vor, and, erm, some things were said. Mathieu Vorsoisson called me a - he said something I didn't appreciate."

"And?" said Gregor.

"And I broke his nose," said Miles.

"You broke his . . ."

Miles displayed his knuckles, which were indeed a little swollen. "Someone really should teach him how to duck."

"You got into a _bar brawl_ with - I'm assuming they're officers?"

"Well, they weren't in uniform," said Miles. "But, erm, I think so, yes."

It abruptly occurred to Gregor that he was not having this conversation with his fianc He set his teeth and stared hard at the man standing in front of his desk, shoulders straight at attention and hands open at his sides.

"This is not the behavior I expect from my Imperial Auditors," he said lowly.

"I know. I apologize, Sire."

"What in God's name possessed you?" asked Gregor. He was just beginning to realize what a mess this could be, and his temper, always slow to rouse, sparked with unaccustomed heat.

Miles dropped his eyes. "I . . . was very angry, all of a sudden," he said quietly. "I know I've disappointed you."

"This is possibly the worst time you could have chosen to pull something like this," said Gregor. "It will make the news, you think?"

"Oh yes," said Miles. "There were at least thirty people there."

Gregor let out an explosive breath. Miles stood still, head down but back perfectly straight. _No use fighting after the grenade's been thrown_.

"What did he call you?" Gregor asked.

Miles seemed to hesitate. "Nothing I didn't expect. And it doesn't matter, anyway."

"What did he say?" repeated Gregor.

"He called me your catamite," said Miles emotionlessly.

Gregor consciously unclenched his jaw. The expanse of his desk seemed suddenly austere and barren. He rose, went and took Miles by the arm, and drew him gently over to the sofa where they could sit side by side. The bones of Miles's arm were unexpectedly sharp beneath his fingers, and Gregor thought he detected a fine tremor shivering under the skin.

"We knew this would happen," he said carefully, when they were settled. "We knew there would be . . . things said. Assumptions made."

Miles nodded. "I know. And I thought I was ready. But I just . . ."

"Just what?" Gregor asked gently.

Miles shrugged. "I've had this headache all afternoon," he said. "I don't know. I just let them get to me."

Gregor tilted his chin up with a finger. Miles looked drawn, a little pale and strained about the eyes. "You're exhausted," he said.

Miles shook his head. "Don't make excuses for me, please. I've gone and made a mess."

Gregor sighed. "Yes, we'll be hearing about this for a while. I wonder . . . I should probably get Sitzen in here."

"I sent Ivan and Galeni over to talk to him," said Miles. "I wanted to come here first." Gregor slid a hand around his shoulders and Miles leaned wearily into him. "I really am sorry," he said.

"I hope for his sake," said Gregor deliberately, "that his commanding officer punishes him accordingly for conduct unbecoming. I would hate to have to . . . step in personally."

"Don't," said Miles, shaking his head. "It was stupid. It doesn't matter what he thinks."

"You're the love of my life," said Gregor, gazing down at Miles's dark hair, the curve of an ear, the neat lines of his shoulder.

Miles relaxed fractionally. "I know." He looked up and flashed a genuine smile. "But it is nice to hear."

Gregor touched his face. "You do look very tired, you know."

"You're not looking too good there yourself," said Miles. "The last few weeks have not been the easiest of times."

Gregor shook his head. "Have you eaten?"

"No. I was going to go home and get something after we had drinks."

"Come upstairs and have dinner with me?" Gregor asked hopefully. "I was supposed to see Minister Van tonight, but we postponed because of project delays."

Miles snorted. "Why is it," he asked rhetorically, "that now we're engaged, we can only fit each other in through the accidental scheduling gaps?"

Gregor drew him close for a moment, running his hands up and down Miles's back and trying to smooth out the remaining tension he could still feel thrumming there. "You said you had a headache?"

"It's mostly gone now. I think maybe I should check my neurotransmitter levels later, though."

Gregor drew back, frowning. "You had a seizure not ten days ago," he said. He remembered the occasion all too well. They had worried that Miles could damage his still-healing injury if he thrashed around too much, and then the seizure itself had turned out to be unexpectedly intense. Surely it was too soon for him to have to do it again.

Miles shrugged. "Not the easiest of times," he said again.

Sitzen arrived then, Galeni and Ivan in tow. The PR man gave Miles a faintly exasperated look, but didn't say anything beyond, "I'll take care of it, Sire."

"You can spin this?" Gregor asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes and no." His lip twisted wryly as he glanced at Miles. "You will be painted as volatile and potentially violent. In some circles, that's a compliment. And with your family background . . ."

"Oh, fantastic," muttered Miles.

"I should make some calls," said Sitzen. "Is there anything else you require of me, Sire?"

Gregor shook his head and dismissed him. "Well, gentlemen," he said to Galeni and Ivan, who, Gregor noticed, sported a bruise to match Miles's. "Would you like to join us for dinner?"

"Thank you, Sire," Galeni said, "but I have a previous engagement."

"The in-laws?" asked Miles.

Galeni nodded with an imperceptible quiver. Gregor could hardly blame him - marrying into that family involved the sudden acquisition of a startling array of female relatives. No wonder Mark kept dragging his feet. At least Gregor was forewarned, though Miles didn't seem to be calculating for Gregor's aunts on his mother's side. Not yet, anyway.

"Send our greetings, will you?" said Miles.

"Of course." Galeni bowed himself out.

"Ivan?" Gregor asked.

"Er . . ."

"Go home and sleep," Miles said with a shooing wave.

"Thank you," Ivan said with considerable gratitude, and escaped.

The staff set dinner for two on the glassed-in balcony off Gregor's sitting room. A pleasant snow flurry was illuminated by the faint glow of outdoor security lighting, and the room itself was dimly lit and comfortably warm. Gregor paused as they approached the table, turned, sank to one knee, and leaned in for a kiss.

"Ah," said Miles. "S'nice."

"When was the last time I got to do that?" asked Gregor. He rose, held Miles's chair out for him, and then collapsed into his own with a sigh.

Miles leaned an elbow on the table, crumpling his napkin in the other hand. He did not look any more relaxed here, in this private space, than he had downstairs.

"Remind me why I thought this was such a good idea," Miles asked, rubbing a hand over his face.

Gregor began dishing up salad. "I seem to recall something about true love and changing the world."

"Ah yes," Miles sighed. "I hadn't forgotten the first part, I assure you. I'm finding it hard to care much about the second right about now, though." He shook his head and said, "Barrayarans!" in cadences very similar to the Countess's. "Did you see that dreadful historical retrospective piece on the front page of the _Clarion_ this morning?"

"Yes, Allegre pointed it out to me. You'd think the soltoxin attack had happened yesterday."

"I don't mind, exactly," Miles said. "Saves us having to remind everyone with every other breath that my children won't actually be mutants." He scowled broodingly into his plate. "For the rest of it . . . I rather liked my anonymity, such as it ever was. And at the very least, I wish any printed biography of me could actually be accurate."

"You," said Gregor dryly, "are and have always been uniquely unsuited for anonymity."

"I suppose," said Miles. "But I was not, in fact, a lowly ImpSec package courier - that's going to come out eventually, you know, and through no fault of mine."

"I imagine so." Gregor sipped his wine, deciding this was not the time to point out that Miles's problem wasn't actually with celebrity, it was with the lack of control over the dissemination of information. "And how are your parents doing?"

"Oh, you know how they are. They're used to all the attention, or they were once, anyway. My father is talking about escaping to the lake house as soon as the spring thaw sets in."

"Hmm," Gregor said, pushing salad around his plate. "I was worried that he might . . ."

"What?" Miles asked.

"Nothing, really." Miles waited, eyebrow up. Damn, he shouldn't have said anything. "It's just that, four years ago, he wasn't very happy to hear about us. I've sometimes thought he hoped it would fall through before we got this far."

Miles frowned across the table. "I don't think that's very fair, Gregor."

"Maybe not. But . . ." Gregor shrugged. He sensed that this was not a topic he should push tonight, not with Miles already very tense. But then again it was the sort of thing for which there was never a good time, only _bad_ and _worse_. Now, however, most likely fell within the parameters of _worse_ . . .

"He's always been very supportive of us. Of you and me, and of us."

"I know, I know." Aral had been, after his initial shock, nothing but absolutely polite over the whole matter. But Gregor had thought, until now, that he wasn't the only one to sense a current of subtle, unspoken tension. "I guess you haven't noticed," he said, feeling suddenly paranoid and rather foolish.

"Noticed what?"

Gregor shrugged helplessly. "He doesn't . . . I don't know. It's like I have to work harder to get the same level of approval. And when we talk, it's different." He frowned at Miles. "You really haven't noticed?"

Miles avoided the question, a defensive set to his shoulders. "Do you really still need his approval, even now?"

"I don't," Gregor said, allowing the diversion. "But he did this job for a long time, and he was great at it. It's nice to be . . . affirmed, so to speak."

"Ah," Miles said. "Well . . . maybe he thinks you just don't need it as much these days."

"I'm sure that's it," said Gregor diplomatically, deciding it was time to lay the subject to rest. He had worried, guiltily, if he were the author of some strain between Miles and his father, but had never discovered the right way to find out. And if so, Miles clearly didn't want to discuss it. _Why should he? You're the one Aral blames_.

They were silent for a time. "How's your mother?" Gregor asked at last, the Countess being a much safer topic all around.

"All right," Miles said slowly. "I think . . . she's worried about my father. And me. And I think she's very tired of Barrayar."

Gregor frowned. "I remember, she last went back to Beta Colony when you were . . . six? Seven?"

"Eight. After she got all those problems with their government sorted out - I'm still not sure what the problem was, something about trying to drown a therapist? I never did understand. Anyway, yes, it was after you were at the Academy, and she took me to meet Grandmother Naismith. I think she meant to go back more after that, but there was never a good time." He lifted a hand to probe distractedly at the bruise on his cheek, wincing momentarily.

"Do you want a cold pack for that?" Gregor asked belatedly.

"Does it look that bad?"

Gregor tilted his head to one side. "You definitely look like whatever happened, you lost," he said, and rang for the pack. He met the servant at the door, broke the seal to trigger the freezing process, and peeled away the backing to press the adherent surface to Miles's cheek. While he was up he poured fresh glasses of wine, a rich, dark red to go with the meat course. Miles watched him, bemused and tolerant. Few other people allowed Gregor to perform the smallest menial service to them, and these artifacts of intimacy were precious to him.

Gregor paused behind Miles's chair, looking down at his hunched shoulders. Curiosity tugged at him, morbid and rather awful, and he wondered whether Miles ought to be forewarned, anyway, if he didn't know already. "Do you think . . ." he began. "After your father . . . I mean will she -"

"Yes," Miles said quietly to the tabletop. "I'm fairly certain she plans on going back. Barrayar has never become her home."

Gregor circled the table and retook his seat. Miles was staring past him into the distance, thoughts flickering dimly across his face like shadows beneath the waters of the lake.

"I'm sorry," Gregor said. "This isn't the relaxing evening I had in mind."

Miles peeled the cold pack off his face and rubbed distractedly at his temple. "Um," he said faintly.

"Miles?"

"I don't . . ." Miles met his eyes at last. "I think there's something I should tell you," he said. "I didn't want to worry you, and I thought it would just go away, but . . ."

"What?" Gregor's hands locked in his lap. He was suddenly, irrationally certain that Miles was about to call the whole thing off, to decide that he didn't actually want this life and he should get out while he could. _Stop it. Your neuroses are showing_.

"Um," Miles said again, sounding suddenly abstracted. He blinked, then squinted. "I don't feel . . . I think I'm going to -"

And then he seized all at once, eyes rolling back and head lolling limply on his shoulders. Gregor leapt for him; Miles's hands jerked and flailed, and he landed a solid, open-handed blow to Gregor's shoulder. His feet beat a rattling tattoo against the table, and his wineglass tipped over, releasing a dark, spreading stain. Gregor lifted him and held him momentarily close, his body awfully, vacantly animated. By the time he got Miles to the floor, head back to keep his airway clear, the worst of the spasms were over. Gregor pried his mouth open anyway, hissing when he saw that Miles was already bleeding from where he'd bitten his tongue.

He knelt there on the floor at Miles's head, one hand cupped around his jaw, unwilling to leave him long enough to find something to put in his mouth. He looked down Miles's short body, watching the muscular spasms slowly subside, and then fall away into stillness. He counted thirty of Miles's steady breaths before he dared sit back and reach for his comlink.

Miles was still unconscious when Pym and the Residence physician found them there on the floor.

"It was very sudden," Gregor said, looking up at Pym. "This hasn't happened in four years."

"Let's move him," said the physician, straightening from his initial examination. Gregor waved both of them off and lifted Miles himself, settling him on the sofa in the sitting room.

"M'lord has been under some strain lately," said Pym hesitantly.

"One could say . . ." said Gregor. They shared a look, mutually doubtful.

Miles stirred just then. Gregor turned back to him, watching for a long minute as Miles struggled towards consciousness. His eyes opened, squinted, then found Gregor.

"That's not quite how I wanted to say that," he said. "Ow."

"Do you think you've been overdoing it?" Gregor asked softly, dropping to sit on the floor at Miles's head.

Miles grimaced, looking away. "Maybe," he said, and Gregor knew how much the admission cost him.

"Okay," Gregor said carefully, spinning out contingencies in his head and wondering, in a tiny corner of consciousness, how sharing Gregor's life could possibly be good for Miles, if this was the result before they were even betrothed. "You had a seizure last week," he said, as the physician leaned past him to examine Miles's pupils. "I didn't realize you were so - are you certain nothing else has happened? Did you hit your head tonight?"

"When tonight?" asked Miles.

"At the Bird and Bear."

Miles face remained blank, and the physician, watching the byplay, looked suddenly alert. "Lord Vorkosigan," he said, voice casual but eyes sharp, "what is today's date?"

Miles named it readily, to Gregor's relief, and then his middle name, their betrothal date, and the location of the last Galactic Games. "What?" he asked at last, looking between them, puzzled and wary.

"Miles," Gregor said slowly, "earlier this evening you were at a bar with Ivan and Duv Galeni. Some men were rude to you, and there was an . . . altercation."

"No, I . . ." Miles stopped. He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. "Oh. There was," he said quietly.

"Yes."

"I didn't remember that at all for a moment. That's . . . strange."

"M'lord didn't hit his head this evening," Pym said from behind them. "At least not that I saw, and I think I would have."

The physician checked anyway, running his fingers through Miles's hair and probing gently at his cheekbone as he asked a long series of questions; was Miles dizzy, nauseous, seeing flashes of light, breathing well, experiencing pain in his incision?

"I've been feeling . . . odd," said Miles, frowning. "I don't know, I thought I was just reacting to all the drugs I've been on - I do that, y'know."

"Odd?" the physician prompted, taking notes with a stylus now.

Miles shrugged. "Tired, mostly. I kept waiting for it to get better, but it hasn't. And sometimes my hands shake."

The physician lifted Miles's hands, turning them over and then leaving them suspended in the air. They were steady, and Miles looked down at them ruefully. "Contrary buggers," he muttered.

"Any other unusual symptoms?"

"Um," Miles worried at his lip. "My right knee gave out on me last week. Just turned to jelly. It's been fine, ever since."

"Have there been any other incidents of memory loss?"

"No," said Miles.

"Yes," said Pym, unexpectedly. "M'lord has forgotten some things - always very unimportant, but it is unlike him."

Miles looked unhappy. "How would I know, I guess," he said, and turned his face away. Gregor quashed the impulse to reach out to him; it would not be appreciated at this particular moment. Shadows flickered on the side of Miles's face, cast by the candles still burning on the dinner table. Through the open door, Gregor could faintly hear the steady _drip drip drip_ as Miles's spilled wine ran in a dark smear down the white tablecloth to the floor.

"This was what you wanted to tell me?" he asked. "That you've not been well for, what, weeks now?"

Miles nodded. "I didn't want to screw anything up." He flickered a quick look at Gregor's face, winced at what he saw there, and looked away.

"I see," said Gregor, and closed his lips. There were quite a number of unhelpful things he could say at this point, not the least of which being that Miles might be a bit late on that score. But no use there - Miles was already thinking it, and it wasn't him Gregor was really angry with, anyway. He took a breath and looked up to meet the physician's eyes. "What's wrong with him?" he asked plainly.

"I don't know, Sire. It could be . . ." his mouth twisted unhappily, "any number of things." Unpleasant things, to judge by his expression.

"All right," said Gregor, and pushed to his feet. "Let us find out."


	7. Chapter 7

It took fifteen hours. Gregor, relegated to the role of observer throughout, noted several distinct stages as evening turned into night and night into dawn. Around midnight they stopped talking about somatic tissue damage and suddenly the word "neurological" kept popping up in every other sentence. Two hours after that the only information appearing was negative - not a pinpoint hemorrhage, not a growth or tumor, not any of a family of degenerative brain disorders. A few hours after that, as dawn inched reluctant gray fingers in the eastern sky and a sullen, snow-bound day was born, people stopped meeting his eyes.

A change of clothes arrived for Miles in the depths of the night, borne by the Countess herself. She spoke a few words to her son, then joined Gregor.

"Hello, love," was all she said, reaching over to give Negri, who was occupying Gregor's lap, a scratch behind the ears. Gregor was infinitely horrified and infinitely glad to see her. The gladness won out temporarily as an impromptu conference of the finest medical minds on Barrayar broke up with yet a new direction to pursue. Cordelia had a great deal more practice at this sort of thing. The two of them didn't talk much as they sat together, hour after hour slipping inexorably by in a comfortably appointed waiting room in the Residence clinic. All the window shades had been drawn during the night, and Gregor didn't realize how much time had actually passed until General Allegre hesitantly approached him.

"Yes," he said, decamping Negri and rising stiffly to his feet, "just a moment." He hesitated, then crossed the room to where Miles sat in a comfortably padded chair with a device much like his seizure stimulator strapped to his head. He hadn't been saying much, except to answer direct questions, for hours now. "I've got to go for a little while," Gregor said, feeling suddenly and inexplicably like a schoolboy trying to get excused from lessons. "Morning security briefing."

Miles glanced up, eyes red-rimmed. "Go on," he said, and pulled up half a smile from somewhere.

Gregor lingered. "You should take a break soon." He could feel the exhaustion plucking at his own nerves and concentration.

"Just a little longer, I think," Miles said, with an odd, clairvoyant lilt to his voice. "We're almost there." He, at least, met Gregor's eyes steadily.

Allegre accompanied him to his office. He hadn't slept either, Gregor guessed.

"Let's make this quick," Gregor said, settling behind his desk.

Allegre nodded, wisely refraining from any comment on their immediate situation. Instead, he launched in with the usual flow of data, and the trained habit of years had Gregor's mind filtering, sifting, rearranging, and storing. Harassment of Barrayarn and Komarran shipping through Tau Ceti was escalating, and all diplomatic solutions had thus far fallen flat. There were some unpleasant political things happening back on oldEarth, and, much closer to home, the last panel of the Komarran Soletta was assembled and would be in place by spring. Allegre paused there, glancing uncomfortably down at his notes. "Commodore Galeni suggested that the timing was felicitous," he added, a bit gruffly. "Since Lord Vorkosigan's name was so prominently connected with the decision to repair and expand the Soletta, Galeni thinks his presence at the completion ceremonies could do nothing but good for him. For both of you, that is."

"I agree," Gregor acknowledged. Miles, who had sweated blood to get that appropriation through the Council and who deserved every iota of the grudging respect and thanks it had earned him on Komarr, would undoubtedly concur.

Allegre waited a beat, then continued. "We have a complete assessment of the contraband cargo pulled off the _Twilight Rainbow_ two days ago. There was over a million Marks worth of Jump Juice aboard, as well as a few pieces of equipment the tech boys say are manufacturing implements." He paused, grimacing. "It's a big haul, but the conclusion that there's at least one fully functional lab working domestically seems more and more likely."

"What are the logistics of that?" Gregor asked curiously. "Is it the sort of operation that someone could be running out of their attic?"

"Luckily, no," Allegre said. "They tell me we're talking large amounts of very bulky equipment, as well as a substantial amount of noise, dampeners or not, to say nothing of some very volatile and highly flammable chemicals. The estimates Drade's people are batting about would suggest we're looking for something just slightly smaller than your average city block. And it wouldn't make much sense to have several smaller labs," he added, anticipating Gregor's next question. "The risks involved in transporting large amounts of intermediate compounds from one location to another would far outweigh any benefit."

"Well, that's something," Gregor said. "I suppose it'd be too much to hope one of the clean-up crews will walk right into it over on the eastside. Or that it will reveal itself by conveniently blowing itself up."

Allegre made the sort of noncommittal twitch that meant neither he nor his analysts had any insights, either way.

"All right. Make sure the municipals are being careful as they search, here and elsewhere. We don't want our neighborhood drug concocters to get nervous and relocate on us. What's next?"

"Count Vorpatril has stopped making quite so much fuss about your betrothal. It was pointed out to him that he was coming across as remarkably unpatriotic, so he's settled down."

Gregor nodded. Neither he nor Miles, let alone Ivan, had anticipated the virulent outrage which had poured from the normally taciturn, if gruff, Falco Vorpatril. It did make a sort of sense, though - the man must have gotten over his initial astonishment and dismay and become used to the prospect of a relation of his assuming the Imperial mantle someday.

"My agents report that they anticipate apprehending Franz Favil, the founder and driving force behind Body Guard, within the next few days," Allegre continued.

"Good," Gregor said, through a reflexive frown. Body Guard had existed since before Ivan's confirmation as Heir, even before Miles had known Gregor's intentions. They were the new face on old ideas, and had been one of the first groups to vocally suggest that Gregor's long, unmarried reign was a symptom of his preference for men. Their reaction to being right had been frenzied, and had pushed them over the line from political irritant to dangerously unpredictable splinter. They were not what Gregor, or ImpSec, called a severe threat to his personal safety, but the discovery of an amateur explosives stash at one of their meeting places had bumped them up the priorities list.

Miles, Gregor remembered, had awarded them only a pragmatic shrug. "They have a problem," he'd said to Gregor, just a week ago. "They've spent five years shrieking to anyone who will listen that you're not fit to hold the Imperium because you prefer men. As it happens, you prefer me, but their own paranoia - I refuse to call it perceptiveness - is shooting them in the foot. If you've had these degenerate preferences for five years, or however long, how come you haven't plunged Barrayar into a stew of iniquity and decay already? No," he'd concluded, brushing the matter off with a characteristic throw-away gesture, "it's not them I'm worried about. They're fighting against us with outdated principles. Markedly unsuited when this is a battle of people. If Barrayar decides it doesn't want me, it's just going to have to do it because I'm . . . Miles, not because I'm Lord Vorkosigan or a hunchbacked dwarf or male, for that matter." And that, at least in Miles's view, was that.

Gregor was inclined to agree with him, though he was not as ready to dismiss the group out of hand. Body Guard was made up of Barrayaran subjects, subjects who believed something extraordinarily passionately. Gregor never allowed himself to forget that his position at the very peak of the pyramid that was Barrayaran society meant that he was the most vulnerable to any tremor, however short-lived, that might rise from the foundations.

"Any other trouble in that quarter?" Gregor asked, refocusing.

"Nothing new," Allegre said, glancing down at his flimsies as if to check that nothing had appeared while he wasn't looking. "It's going more smoothly than we anticipated," he added, looking up. "A credit to yourself, Sire, as well as to Lord Vorkosigan."

"Hmm," said Gregor, noncommittally. _Smoothly_ . . . he suspected that word no longer applied.

"Just one thing more," Allegre went on. "And I think Lord Vorkosigan will appreciate this." Gregor straightened, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. Allegre had adopted Simon's habit of saving one or two pleasant bits of news for the end of every briefing. When he was younger, Gregor had equated the practice with a parent rewarding his child with a bit of dessert for eating his vegetables. Now, though, he recognized it for the necessary tactic it was, one of the few defenses to hold back the tide of cynicism and misanthropy that any length of time at the center of power tended to bring.

"Oh?" he prompted.

"A number of veterans groups are making moves to consolidate forces," Allegre said. "Their aim, apparently, is to push for greater social acceptance of the wounded and disabled. It's been tried before, with limited success, but they really have some momentum now. Spurred, apparently, by the rumors that Lord Vorkosigan was wounded in the line of duty, as well as by the recent revival of the soltoxin story."

"He will like that," Gregor said, smiling. "He told me once that ninety-nine percent of being an example is nasty and brutish, but that it's all worth the other one percent." His smile faded, and his eyes flicked unconsciously towards the door.

"Ah, Sire," Allegre said, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Perhaps we should discuss contingencies. If Lord Vorkosigan's condition -"

Gregor cut him off with a sharp gesture. "No," he said. "Not yet. We don't know what his condition is; it would be wasted effort at this point." He rose, not permitting any argument. Allegre, perforce, rose with him, moving to precede him out the door.

Gregor returned to find Miles released from all medical apparatus as well as attention, quietly sipping coffee and nibbling at a breakfast spread with his mother. His hands, Gregor saw as he joined them, were trembling faintly. _Fatigue? Or_ . . .

"They're consulting," Miles said, before Gregor could ask. His eyes flicked over Gregor's shoulder to Allegre. "Vortala went hurtling out of here twenty minutes ago, though," he added. His eyes returned to Gregor, steady and calmly frank. "If I had to guess, I'd say he's starting a full scale investigation, looking for how I might have been poisoned."

Allegre took a breath. "Sire, may I -"

"Go." Gregor dismissed him with a nod. He took a breath, then another, before moving to sit gingerly beside Miles. "What makes you think that?" he asked.

Miles set down his coffee cup and clasped his hands in his lap. "They isolated a chemical in my brain," he said. "I get the impression it's not supposed to be there." He shrugged minutely. "It's not a huge leap from there to poison."

The word settled into Gregor's consciousness, bitter and corrosive. He met Cordelia's look over Miles's head; her face was smooth, eyes terrified.

Ten minutes later Lord Vortala was back, bearing a sealed evidence container. He delivered it to the assembled medicos in the clinic office, then returned and presented himself to Gregor.

"They asked to examine the knife Lord Auditor Vorkosigan was stabbed with," he explained. "We're also checking the kitchens at Vorkosigan House, and here at the Residence, as well as the hospital. Lord Vorkosigan, where else have you eaten in the past month?"

Miles squinted, then sighed. "Talk to Lady Alys," he said. "She has my social calendar. Aside from that . . . I had a few drinks with Duv Galeni tonight. It was at the Bird and Bear. I think that's it."

Vortala nodded, noted these details down, and excused himself.

Shortly thereafter the assembled medical talent emerged, universally grim. They ranged themselves around the room, shuffling notes and muttering to each other. The apparent spokesman, a round, graying man in his late fifties, stepped forward and bowed.

"I'm Vice Admiral Pierce Ghale," he said, correctly interpreting their lack of recognition. He'd been introduced to what felt like a battalion of doctors throughout the night, Gregor thought. "I'm a neurochemist by trade, and I have a bit of a specialty in foreign toxins - poisons." He glanced down at the sheaf of papers in his hand, then up. He looked at all of them, but seemed to be speaking directly to Miles. "The chemical agent we isolated in your frontal lobe is something I've never run across before. It's present in extraordinarily minuscule amounts, which was why finding it and obtaining a sample was so difficult. There is no doubt in my mind that it is not naturally occurring. I am not certain, but I am reasonably sure that it is the cause of your recent difficulties."

"I got it when I was stabbed?" Miles asked.

"Well, technically, no," said the doctor. "But, practically speaking, the knife was the transmission vector."

"Sit down," Miles said on a sigh. "This is going to take a while."

Ghale settled himself, setting his stack of flimsies on the table and laying his palms flat over it. "The blade of the knife bore traces of cleaning solvent, a normal array of bacteria, epidermal traces from your assailant, a host of other random but identifiable substances, one substance not readily identifiable but seemingly harmless, and a not inconsiderable amount of your blood, Lord Vorkosigan." He looked up and beckoned to one of his colleagues, who passed him a small vial. "This was drawn from you last evening," Ghale explained, setting it on the table between them. "It was screened for quite a number of things. Nothing too unusual popped up, except that unknown substance from the knife blade. It's a short, tightly bound fatty acid chain, very similar but not exactly like some naturally occurring substances. In the presence of human blood, it is entirely inert and harmless. A bit of biological flotsam, if you will." He looked at Gregor for the first time. "What I'm trying to say is that there was no incompetence or failure on the part of the Imperial Security scientists who examined the knife. Nor, for that matter, on the part of Lord Vorkosigan's physicians during his recovery. They simply would not have known what they were looking at."

Gregor nodded briefly. "And what exactly are we talking about?"

Ghale tapped the vial. "Here, nothing extraordinary. The one thing unusual about this substance, and what first got us on the right track, is that it can penetrate the blood-brain barrier. Not many chemicals are just the right sort of soluble to easily pass through - one of the brain's most complex chemical defenses against the many toxins which find their way into our bodies. Oddly, however, there was almost no trace of the substance in your brain."

"It changes into a poison," Miles said.

"Yes. Once it is out of the bloodstream, a remarkably rapid conversion takes place. We isolated a sample from your blood for observation. Nothing came of it until we thought to expose it to a chemical environment similar to the human brain. The presence of a cocktail of neurotransmitters was the key."

"What does it do?" Gregor asked bluntly.

Ghale let out his breath. "To be perfectly honest, that's the thing I'm least sure about. We have the known symptoms - trembling and weakness in the hands, temporary short term memory loss, muscular weakness in the extremities, increased epileptic activity." He ticked them off on his fingers. "Like I said, this substance is harmless in general circulation. There is nothing physically wrong with your hands or muscles, Lord Auditor Vorkosigan. The problem is purely neurological. Neurons are being disrupted, and are misfiring, sending the wrong messages to the body." He hesitated minutely. "The memory loss concerns me the most. It suggests direct damage rather than disruption. The effect is yet too small to easily distinguish from the normal unevenness of the aging brain, but the concentration in the frontal lobe is alarming." He looked from Cordelia to Gregor to Miles. "Your symptoms will get worse," he said baldly. "As the concentration of the poison slowly increases, and as the damage spreads, what you have noticed already will worsen in frequency, and other symptoms may occur. The frontal lobe is central in decision-making, in the formulation of plans, in fine motor control."

"Ah," said Miles. He shifted in his seat, crossing his ankles. "Will it kill me?"

"I simply don't know. If the disruption were to spread to the autonomic centers in the brainstem . . . we must observe further before knowing."

"Ah," Miles said again.

"What about treatments?" Cordelia asked, speaking for the first time.

"I think we'll have some luck with at least half the problem," Ghale said, voice slowing in thought. "I've been thinking, ever since we realized what was happening, of a way to remove the inert substance from Lord Vorkosigan's blood. The method we used to get a sample won't do - it dismantles the entire structure of blood. We obviously can't remove all your blood, and any pace slow enough to be safe would not be very helpful in the long term. But there is still a substantial amount of pre-poison, if you will, and if we can remove that before it becomes poison . . . I'm not sure yet whether we're talking about a mechanical filtering system, or a designer drug."

"And the other half?" Cordelia prompted. "The active poison?"

"That is substantially trickier." He lifted his open hands and shook his head. "The logical solution, of course, is to first reverse engineer the poison, and then create an antidote. An undertaking of that nature, though, can be very time-consuming."

"And there might not be time," Gregor said. The world had shrunk to this long, white-tiled room, to their little corner, to the three of them ranged along a low sofa and to the man seated across from them. _Read your chemicals and tell us our future._

"No," Ghale said. "We will set a team on that, of course, but another solution should be sought as well." He lifted a hand as Cordelia opened her mouth. "If I knew what, I'd be working on it right now," he said, almost gently.

"My reactions to drugs have always been idiosyncratic," Miles said almost absently. "I don't see why this should be any different."

"I noticed that, in your medical records," Ghale nodded. "I've called in your regular neurologist, by the way, who can look more closely at just what this might do to your seizure disorder. I'm not an expert in such things. We'll try to simulate your somewhat unusual brain chemistry as closely as possible, Lord Vorkosigan, for all the clinical trials."

Gregor's lips were a bit numb, but he managed to speak through them. "You should probably run separate trials for me," he said. "I was the intended target. What this . . . thing does to Miles and what it was intended to do to me might be two different things. It might be helpful."

Ghale nodded, and Gregor caught the flare of compassion in his eyes for just a moment. "We'll draw samples from you then, Sire," he said.

"Plan to work from here," General Allegre said from where he stood, flanked by Vortala and Inceri, just inside the door. Gregor jumped, not having noticed their entrance. "Sire," Allegre continued, "it would be advisable to keep these developments as private as possible."

"Yes," Gregor said. He pressed one hand to his forehead, then quickly dropped it. The past few weeks had been a high wire balancing game. They had been holding their own so far, but something of this magnitude . . .

"Please run all your staff choices past me first, Vice Admiral," Allegre said to Ghale. His eye swept the room in a cool appraisal. "If word of this reaches the press, the medical staff will be the first place we look."

"Bring in whoever you need," Gregor said to Ghale. "Equipment, too. I'm putting you in charge of everything involved."

Ghale half-bowed, sitting. "You'll excuse me if I don't thank you, Sire, even if it is an honor," he said quietly. "I'll need to see you frequently, I think, Lord Vorkosigan. And please tell me if you notice any changes. The progression should be slow, but steady. Do any of you have questions for me?"

"I have one," Miles said. "If I had gone to a doctor about this . . . before, would it have made a difference?" For the first time all morning, the shadow of a tremor touched his voice.

Ghale considered this seriously. "Would have, no. Will have . . . perhaps. If you had talked to your personal physician earlier, chances are he would not have been able to do much for you. The poison would have been present in your brain in amounts too low to detect. Whether the extra time would have been critical has yet to be seen."

"Thank you," Miles said.

The doctors filed out, leaving the three of them sitting together in a weary, worried knot. "Time to go home, love," Cordelia said quietly.

Miles nodded, and shuffled tiredly off to change into the clothes Cordelia had brought him hours ago. The two of them looked at each other for a long moment, and then Gregor bent over, burying his face in his hands.

"How are you?" Cordelia asked quietly.

"If great tests are great gifts, I don't want this one. I'd like to give it back, please."

"I'm sorry, kiddo, but it doesn't work that way."

"Why not?" he asked plaintively.

"Maybe gift is not the best word here," Cordelia said, her mouth quirking in a sad, thoughtful expression. "Opportunity, perhaps? Suffering is like turning up the amperage of our souls. In the extremity of pain we reach beyond ourselves, further than we knew we were capable. And suddenly, when it is over, we discover that we have not found the end of our potential after all, but only expanded the horizon on ourselves."

Gregor shook his head. "It seems a poor consolation to me. I don't want to grow. I would shrink myself to the tiniest, hardest little knot if it would keep him safe."

Cordelia's hand settled gently between his shoulder blades. "We all have to make our own sanity, Gregor. There's a madness in the random cruelty of events, and I find solace in creating a purpose for them."

_I don't. Not today_.

Miles returned and leaned briefly on the doorjamb, looking at them. "I don't suppose you could come back to Vorkosigan House with us," he said to Gregor.

Gregor shook his head. "I have a few matters this morning that I must attend to," he said with a sigh. "And I should probably stay here so they can poke and prod me when it comes to that. I might be able to make it over early this afternoon."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Miles asked. "You were up all night."

"I'm fine." Gregor glanced at Cordelia. "Could you give us a moment?" She nodded and exited past Miles, brushing his hair with a brief, restrained touch and closing the door quietly behind herself.

Miles read him with one, piercing look. It was as if he could pluck the words, unspoken, straight from Gregor's mind. _I did this to you. I'm sorry_.

"Stop that," Miles said, coming to sit beside him.

Gregor bent his head, stared fixedly at the floor between his boots. "This is exactly it," he said quietly. "When I used to envision the worst case scenarios . . . something like this is damn close." Close, but not quite - it hadn't taken his mind much effort to conjure up the vision of Miles falling dead at his feet on the stones of the boulevard.

"Mine, too," Miles said quietly. "I'm sure you've already thought of this, but the fact that our assassin missed you doesn't mean whatever plot is afoot - and a plot looks more and more likely - has been spoiled. In fact," his voice hesitated, and Gregor looked up despite himself. Miles sat beside him in a similar pose, hands clasped together between his knees, eyes downcast. "In fact," Miles said, "I may have handed them everything, wrapped for Winterfair." He looked up bleakly. "If you insist on thinking that you've gotten us down this hole, I'd like to point out that I'm the one who's going to be dragging you deeper and deeper with me."

Gregor's voice failed him momentarily. It had, in fact occurred to him, as it doubtless had to everyone who was in the habit of considering such things. Conspirators, if indeed there were conspirators, though deprived of a poisoned emperor, had been handed in its place an emperor publicly in love with someone who was poisoned. Gregor's only solace for the lack of an extended family was that with their absence came the shoring of his armor, the certainty that those he loved would not be hurt or taken away in order to bend his will. That state of affairs had changed a week ago, in the eyes of all of Barrayar.

"We'll handle it," he said at last. _There is nothing I can't imagine doing to stop this from happening to you. God help me_.

Miles leaned into his side, slid an arm around him and squeezed tight. "Go to your meetings. Give Ghale a few vials of blood. And then come see me." Gregor nodded, and Miles slowly untangled and straightened. "I'll see you then." He kissed Gregor briefly, chastely, and went out to join his mother. Gregor stayed sitting in the chair, staring at nothing, until his secretary came to fetch him for the first meeting of the day.


	8. Chapter 8

So apparently his cousin had bypassed shooting himself in the foot in the literal sense, and off and gotten himself poisoned. Which was just typical of him. Miles had been precipitously yanked from his hectic schedule, causing no end of ripples, and Ivan hadn't actually seen him in a while, not since the clipped recitation of facts waiting for him on his comconsole when he got home from work a week ago. He'd gone to Vorkosigan House this morning to remedy that, expecting to find just about anything, only to be sent off like an errand boy to the Residence with fresh clothes for Miles.

Ivan found him sitting in the library of Gregor's private apartments, leafing idly through a very heavy, very old book and attempting to look relaxed. That damn cat Gregor was so attached to lay sprawled out beside him, batting at the paper every time Miles flipped a page. Ivan knocked at the open door.

"Ah," Miles said, looking up. "There you are." He brought his feet down off the coffee table with a dull thud. "Thanks for bringing that over," he added, nodding to the garment bag and tilting his chin at Ivan's Armsman escort. "Could you put those in my wardrobe? Thanks." The Armsman disappeared and Miles gestured Ivan to a chair.

"You have a wardrobe here now?" Ivan asked, raising an eyebrow as he helped himself to the tea things that sat untouched on an end table.

"I've had a wardrobe here for awhile," Miles answered. He shoved the book aside, displacing the watchful cat. It hopped down off the couch and sauntered out of the room, nose in the air. "I'm just using it more often now."

Ivan nodded; Miles looked fine, if tired, but Ivan had heard that he'd been spending a great deal of time in the Residence clinic. "Is there any more news?" he asked.

Miles shook his head. "Not that anyone's told me. Or Gregor, I think." He shrugged with a show of stoicism. "We're going forward with the betrothal preparations as if everything is normal. Your mother was in here today. We had a fitting." He grimaced. "Or possibly a fit."

"So you haven't discussed pushing the date back?"

"Not yet. We're still hoping it won't be necessary."

"Ah." Ivan studied his tea. "And how are you feeling?"

"I'm not in pain," Miles said. "I just . . . forget things. And drop things." He slumped and scowled. "It doesn't sound so bad, but if we can't find a way to reverse it, even if it doesn't get any worse than it is now - which it will, that much Ghale is sure of - I won't be able to do my job as an Auditor."

"Oh come on," said Ivan. "Valentine can't even tell you his own name these days."

Miles gave him a withering look. "Quite. And when's the last time you saw _him_ sent off to handle a delicate, potentially explosive situation with flair and finesse?"

_Right. Oops_. "They'll figure something out," Ivan said.

"Mmm," Miles replied, sounding tired.

"Mmm?"

Miles shrugged. "It's just that every time I go in there, they look a little less optimistic. And they take more blood - I shouldn't have any left by now, really - and do more tests and never have any news."

"How about the rest of it?" Ivan pressed hopefully. "What's ImpSec saying? Do you have any theories?"

"Not really," Miles sighed, leaning his head back.

"Not . . . really?" Ivan said, shocked.

Miles shrugged. "I think we need to know what the poison was supposed to do first. Until then, we just have to wait."

Ivan was too put off by this patient - indifferent? - Miles to answer. Finally he said, "I'm surprised you're not more involved. I mean, usually . . ."

"Yeah," Miles said. "I don't . . ." He stopped. "I don't trust myself right now, Ivan. My brain was always the excuse for my existence. And now it's falling apart and I don't trust my own skills with this investigation. People whose synapses aren't misfiring need to be free to follow their own theories without indulging my whims."

"Oh," said Ivan, seeing with sudden clarity just how much that was festering. He could imagine Miles and Gregor sitting here in this room, talking it over with calm deliberation, deciding that if Miles couldn't be trusted to go out into society without breaking more noses, he certainly couldn't be trusted to save himself. "I'm sorry," Ivan said quietly.

"Not your fault."

A knock at the door relieved them of having to continue the conversation. Ivan sat up straight and Miles called, "Enter!" A heavyset older man came in, a sheaf of flimsies in his hands, and closed the door quietly. "Ah, Vice Admiral," Miles said. "I'd like you to meet my cousin, Lord Ivan Vorpatril. Ivan, this is Vice Admiral Doctor Ghale. He's in charge of the medical aspects of the investigation."

Ivan stood and offered his hand. Ghale shook it firmly. "An honor to meet you, Lord Ivan." He looked at Miles. "Lord Vorkosigan, I have some information for you."

"Thank God," Miles said. "Have a seat."

Ghale did so, flickering an uncertain glance at Ivan. "My lord, do you wish . . ."

"Is the news good or bad?" Miles asked directly.

"Bad," said Ghale.

"Then I think I'd like Ivan to stay," said Miles, without looking at him.

Ivan, caught in the act of going for the door, stopped. "Um," he said. "Shouldn't Gregor -"

"No," Miles said. "Doctor, please tell me what you've found."

"All right." Ghale sat forward on the edge of his chair and waited for Ivan to return to his seat. "It appears that the chemical compound that we found in your brain was not intended to be fatal to the Emperor. It would have led to degeneration of neurological function, similar to what we've found with you, but it would not have killed him. Eventually - and this is hypothetical, based on some simulations that we've run - it would have led to drastic personality changes."

"Such as?"

"Mood swings. A tendency towards extremity, perhaps violence. A certain level of suggestibility."

"I see," Miles said, eyes narrowing. "We were supposed to have Mad Emperor Gregor on our hands."

"Perhaps, my lord."

"In which case," Miles continued, "it wouldn't need to be fatal, would it? Not with Barrayar's paranoia about insane emperors. We would have taken care of that part nicely." Ghale didn't nod, but gave a sort of half shrug, as if to say, "Just so." Ivan glanced at Miles and saw that his eyes were lit up. The sight put him at ease, ironically. "Have you informed General Allegre of this?" Miles asked.

"Yes, my lord. We're putting together a complete report for later on this afternoon."

"Good." Miles half-rose as if to pace, thought better of it, and settled back. "Suggestibility and violent urges. That's . . . hmm."

"General Allegre is sending over the body of, ah, of your assailant," Ghale said. "He wants us to test it."

"Test it - ah yes. Of course, I should have thought of that." Miles seemed to hear his own words, and his mouth tightened fractionally. "Let me know how that turns out."

"Of course." Ghale paused, coughed, straightened his shoulders. "There is more, my lord,"

"I thought there might be," Miles said evenly. "You wouldn't have come in here alone, otherwise."

"No, my lord."

"Go ahead. Let's have it."

"As I said, the compound was not intended to kill the Emperor. However, your physiology is markedly different from his. You appear to be more sensitive to the harmful effects, and your seizure disorder is proving to be a serious complication, as I think you realize."

Miles smiled humorlessly. "Four seizures in a month," he said. "Yes, I'd gathered that much. Is it affecting the chip in my head?"

"Not directly, my lord, no. Your brain is under a great deal of stress - the further the damage progresses, the more imbalanced your neurotransmitters become, the more epileptic activity there will be."

"I see." Miles drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair and then said, with a touch of impatience, "What is the bottom line, Doctor?"

Ghale sighed. "If the physiological and neurological damage continues at this rate, it will be past the point of organic repair in about a month. You will continue to have seizures with greater frequency and severity, and the neurological activity seems to be acting to spread the poison and its effects. I think major organ systems will begin shutting down shortly thereafter as the poison settles into the brainstem and starts interfering with autonomic reflexes."

"So," Miles said after a moment of silence as he digested this, "it wasn't meant to kill Gregor, but if nothing is done, it will kill me in . . . how long?"

"My best estimate is about six weeks."

Miles's face was incredibly blank; Ivan was glad no one was looking his way, because he didn't think he could say the same.

"I . . . see. Is there anything else?"

"No, my lord. I'm sorry the news wasn't better. We're continuing to work on solutions."

"Do you have any conclusions as to an origin?"

"Not just yet," Ghale said.

"If you had to guess?"

Ghale winced slightly, indicating his unwillingness to do so, but then said, "This is an opinion of logic more than science. But a designer neurotoxin meant for the Emperor of Barrayar . . . sounds like Jackson's Whole to me."

"Me too," Miles said on a sigh. "Which, of course, leaves us with nothing. Anyone can contract out through there."

"It's clever work," said Ghale, with the detached admiration of a disinterested artist. "Functional, but still sufficiently anonymous. I really couldn't say anything definitive."

"I know. Thank you, Doctor. Gregor will probably want to speak to you shortly."

"Of course, my lord." Ghale took the cue, rising to depart.

Miles waited until he had let himself out and then blew out a long breath. "Well, that's over with." He glanced over, taking in Ivan's expression, and said, "I've been waiting for that conversation for about two days now. It was excruciating."

"The wait or the conversation?"

"The wait. The conversation was . . . a whole different kind of horrible. A boulder off my chest, to be replaced with an aircar."

"You have to tell Gregor."

"Of course," Miles sighed. "I asked Ghale to do this, you see. If they found anything really bad, they were to come to me first. We'll need to have a full medical team meeting later tonight to discuss the other implications. But I wanted to be the one to tell Gregor. Better for him and me, and no one has to tell their Emperor that his fiance is dying."

*~*~*

He could feel the black and white perceptions creeping into his thinking with every step. It was a funny side-effect of the proximity of death, he had come to realize - this compression of will and wit and strength onto a flattened, two-dimensional landscape. Choices and alternatives folded in on themselves, leaving only stark dichotomies, which were really no choice at all. Scream until his throat was bloody, or walk upright, tight-lipped and calm. Go to Gregor right now, or huddle, cowering, waiting to be hunted out.

Gregor was alone in his office, between appointments, Miles assumed. He shut the door, and surprised himself by being able to return Gregor's smile.

"Hey," Gregor said, starting to push back in his chair to rise.

"Stay there," Miles said, waving him down. He crossed to Gregor's desk and circled it, hopping up to the edge and sweeping reports, disks, light pens and notes aside so he could slide over in front of Gregor. Gregor watched this performance, one eyebrow quizzically cocked. They sat staring at each other for a long moment, until Miles felt the delay eating away at the fine balance of . . . what? Control? Self-possession? Sanity? he had managed to maintain. "I just talked to Ghale," he said. "I have about a month before the damage is irreparable. Six weeks before it's over."

He felt a shift in the air, as of a pressure front rolling in over the shore. There was a faint ringing in Miles's ears, a bitter taste in his mouth, lead in his gut. And far back behind Gregor's familiar hazel eyes, something broke, quietly and without fuss.

There was an antique timepiece mounted above Gregor's desk; Miles listened to its steady ticking as he watched Gregor reflexively control his face, then realize what he was doing and give it up. They leaned together then, a silent, mutual need that tightly wrapped arms could not quite satisfy. Breathing the same air was a little better, but not much. At last Gregor sat back, if only a few inches. He cradled Miles's face, fingering cheekbones and chin, tracing his eyebrows.

"What do you need from me?"

"I don't know," Miles said honestly. "I . . . even practice doesn't prepare you for this. It's different than last time."

"You have more than just a second or two," Gregor said carefully, placing each word like a tentative step along a dark path. _He wants to hold my hand, every step of the way. Oh Gregor, this is not a place I ever wanted to take you_ . . .

"No," Miles said. "That's . . . better. And worse. It goes the same place, in the end."

Gregor flinched, so minute a movement that only Miles's proximity allowed him to see it. "I've always thought that the way matters as much as the destination," he said, still in that careful voice.

"I'd like to think so," Miles said. He took a breath, found Gregor's hand. "It's also different this time because I have you. And you have me." _Like an awful, inverted pregnancy - dying for two_.

"I'm trying very hard not to do something foolish right now," Gregor said, almost clinically. "Like get down on my knees and plead with you not to go."

"You can, if you like," Miles said. "If you think it will help."

"It won't."

"The problem with having time," Miles said slowly, "is that I have a chance to . . . to get ready, maybe. If it's possible - I don't know if I'm really capable of that. I wasn't ready last time, and it was . . . unpleasant. But I also have the chance to . . ." He hesitated, lifting his eyes to meet Gregor's and surprised to find he'd dropped them in the first place. "I can't get ready to die and fight not to at the same time," he said. "If I wasn't schizoid before, I would be after that." He swallowed, held their gaze. "Which would you rather?"

Gregor's eyes narrowed. Steel seemed to form itself up his spine, and his mouth set. "Don't," he said, clipping each word off, "ever ask me that again."

"All right," Miles said. "I won't. I think we understand each other, then."

Gregor's fingers, which had locked about his wrist in a grip that would have crushed Miles's natural bones, eased. "That was not kind," he said, mildness creeping back.

"I know. Sorry."

"Don't," Gregor said. He dropped his head momentarily, and when he lifted it again his face was calm. "What comes next?"

"My parents," Miles said. Gregor's mouth tightened. "And we need to have a conversation with the medical staff. Ghale had some interesting news about what the poison was meant to do to you, as opposed to what it's currently doing to me."

"He didn't say anything about a cure."

"No. But he thinks, and I agree, that it very well might have come from Jackson's Whole."

"You think so?" Gregor leaned back a bit to look Miles in the face. "Not Komarrans or Cetagandans or . . ."

Miles sighed. "Komarrans . . . maybe. They could have contracted something out through Jackson's Whole. It certainly wouldn't be the first time."

"Anyone could do that."

"Yes. Um." Miles swung his boots, letting them thump gently against Gregor's knees. "Maybe it's just me," he said, hating the diffidence in his own voice, "but this smells . . . Barrayaran."

"Do you know why?"

"It's just the - the shape of the thing. It was supposed to drive you mad, you know."

"Oh," Gregor said. He blinked once, then again. It was a different flavor, Miles realized, but they shared the same underlying phobia. "Do you think there's an antidote?"

"Yes. I'm almost certain. Even the Jacksonians don't invent a poison without also inventing the antidote. Unless they're specifically told not to," he added apologetically.

"They wouldn't give it to us," Gregor said slowly.

Miles snorted. "Of course not. You could Deal for it."

"I could," said Gregor coolly. "But there are other options."

"That will get messy," said Miles. Jackson's Whole wasn't exactly a united sovereignty, but it was a powerful force in and of itself, and enmeshed in the economic and political heart of intergalactic relations. There were guns blazing behind Gregor's eyes, and the very thought made Miles shiver.

"You know," said Gregor, in that deliberate way of his, "if this had happened five years ago, if they'd gotten me instead, it very well might have been you assigned to find an antidote, with all necessary force at your disposal."

"That's different," said Miles.

"Not anymore," said Gregor. "You forget, my rights are yours now, even if we're not yet betrothed, and no intergalactic court would say otherwise."

Miles's shoulders slumped. That was a heavy realization to carry. How did Gregor manage it every day? "I want to go home," he said quietly. "My parents . . ."

Gregor paled perceptibly. "All right. Let's go."

*~*~*

Gregor woke in the gray of the early morning, and lay perfectly still for a moment. Miles slept beside him; Gregor had one hand splayed on his bony back, and he could feel each breath. _Not yet_, he thought. _He's still mine, for now_.

They had returned to Vorkosigan House after meeting with the medical team. Miles had told his parents as plainly and gently as possible. Gregor had sat holding his hand, not daring to look up. _I'm sorry_, he thought. _I did this to your son, and you know it, Aral, even if no one else does_.

They had spent the evening cloistered in the library, listening as their nearest, dearest, and most trusted batted endless theories back and forth. The would-be assassin - hell, _would be_ nothing - had indeed been stricken with the same poison currently dismantling Miles piece by piece. The medicos had been very excited by this - apparently having a dead brain pickled in the stuff to play with was an advantage. Allegre, whose comfortable if realistic conclusion of No Conspiracy had just been dealt a mortal blow, had merely grimaced. Gregor had instructed him to alert his net of agents on Jackson's Whole. Allegre had blinked once, then nodded soberly when Gregor used the rarely spoken, "to be achieved at any cost." He considered it a victory of his reign, Gregor reflected wearily, that he was so rarely forced to the extremis of his authority. _This is happening because of that authority. My advantage is also my weakness_.

After that, Miles had begun concealing yawns behind his hand, and Gregor had excused them, leaving the assembled to keep circling the questions of who and how and why as they pleased.

He lay awake until the gray turned into light, and then, very gently, untangled himself and tucked the blankets around Miles, who burrowed into them without waking. He started to pull on a pair of slacks folded over the back of a chair but realized, when they wouldn't go up past mid-thigh, that they were Miles's, and exchanged them for his own.

He expected the house to be dark still, with only the Armsmen and servants with early morning duties moving about. But there were low voices spilling out of the library. He paused just outside, recognizing Cordelia's weary, strained murmur. He knocked and then entered hesitantly. Miles's parents sat in front of the low-burning fire, sipping coffee and ignoring the groats that had been set out. Gregor realized, looking at their bloodshot eyes, that neither of them had gone to bed.

"Good morning," he said quietly, and poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Is he still sleeping?" Cordelia asked. Gregor nodded. "Good." She glanced at Aral. "We need to talk to you."

Gregor stared down into his coffee cup. "I thought you might."

"Gregor, listen to me," Cordelia said. "I'm only going to say this once, because I don't have the energy to say it a second time. We do not blame you. There are people responsible for this, but you are not one of them."

"He was standing next to me."

"Yes, he was," she agreed. "But neither of you could have known. It was not your fault." She glanced at Aral, as though expecting him to jump in.

"Thank you," Gregor said after a moment, breaking the suddenly heavy silence. "But you must know how difficult it is for me to believe that."

Cordelia nodded. "I understand." She glanced at Aral again, who opened his hand palm outward, gesturing for her to continue. "We have decided that it would be best for Miles if he were not in the capital right now. With the investigation going on, not to mention all the publicity surrounding the two of you and the rumors that are bound to start circulating . . . it's just too much stress. Stress that he doesn't need."

Gregor stared at her without comprehension for a moment. "But . . . the doctors are here."

"The doctors have enough to work with for the moment. And they can always come to Vorkosigan Surleau if they need to. There's nothing they can do for him right now."

Gregor took a sip of coffee to try and collect his thoughts. Six weeks might be all they had left, and they were going to take Miles away from him.

"I can't leave Vorbarr Sultana right now," he said at last. "The Komarran delegation is arriving in three days."

"We know," Aral said, but gently.

"How do you know he'll even agree to this?"

The two of them exchanged a long glance. "We don't," Cordelia said finally. "In fact, if you decide not to support the idea, there's very little chance of getting him to consent."

_I could kill this with a word_. He had thought last night, through those unbearable hours sitting in this very room, that the only thing that would get them through this would be the fact that they were together. If he had to stay in Vorbarr Sultana, knowing that their time was slipping away, knowing that Miles was slipping away . . . he'd go mad.

But they were right. If Miles were to withdraw from the capital it would also allow them to take some semblance of control over speculation, to concoct an appropriate cover story. And Miles had said it himself - he wanted to go home. Home for Miles was not the Residence, though Gregor had hoped to make it so someday, perhaps not even Vorkosigan House. Miles would probably say that home was, for him, wherever Gregor was, but there was no denying that he loved the house at the long lake, and would be happy there. It would be the best place for him.

It was quite painfully clear.

"Yes," he said faintly. He looked up at them, and then rose. "I'll tell him."

"Are you sure?" Cordelia asked worriedly.

"Yes, it . . . I don't think it would work coming from anyone else."

Cordelia nodded. For a moment, Gregor thought Aral would say nothing at all, but then he cleared his throat and said gruffly, "Thank you." Gregor tightened his grip on his coffee mug. He could not bring himself to reply.

Miles's room was still dark and quiet when Gregor, holding a tray with coffee and pastries, entered it a few moments later. He set the tray down on the bedside table and curled up on his side of the bed again for a moment, resting his hand lightly on Miles's back once more. _I'm supposed to live through this and somehow not believe that the universe is actively out to undo me. I don't think that's possible_.

"Gregor?" Miles said blearily, stirring and sitting halfway up. "Do I smell coffee?"

"Yes," Gregor said. He forced a smile and sat up to pour Miles a cup. Miles wrapped both hands around it and simply breathed it in for a moment before taking his first sip. "How did you sleep?"

"Much better than I thought I would." Miles scooted over and tucked himself under Gregor's arm. "Yourself?"

"All right, until about dawn." Gregor bent his head down and kissed Miles's bare neck. "I don't think your parents ever went to bed."

Miles sighed deeply. "I wish they didn't have to do this."

"I wish none of us did." Gregor fell silent, waiting for the right moment to present itself. But by the time Miles was halfway done with his cup of coffee, he realized that it wasn't going to. This was not something that he wanted to say, so there would never be a good moment to say it. "Miles?" he whispered.

"Hmm?"

"Your parents . . . have a suggestion. And I think it's a good one."

Miles craned his head to look up at him. "What?" he asked.

"They think that you should go to Vorkosigan Surleau. Now, I mean. With them."

Miles blinked. "You couldn't go with us."

"No."

"I don't think that's a good idea. I think that's a terrible idea." He turned around and took another sip of coffee.

"So did I, at first," Gregor said. "The last thing I want is for you to be away from me right now. But they're right. It's better for you to be out of Vorbarr Sultana, for a lot of reasons. And . . . I think you'd be happier at Vorkosigan Surleau than you would be here."

"That's bullshit," Miles replied fiercely. "If you could come with us, that would be one thing, but you can't."

"Miles, please. Your parents want this."

"But you don't. And I don't."

"I . . . you're right. I don't want it. For a lot of really selfish reasons. But I could visit. I'd be there as much as possible." Miles was silent, back turned, and Gregor labored on. "I think . . . I think this might be the best thing for everyone."

"Except _us_." Miles pulled away. "I can't believe you're even considering this. Six weeks, Gregor. And you want to send me away?"

"No!" Gregor put his face in his hands and drew a deep, ragged breath. "It's not going to be easy. Any way we do this is going to be awful. But if you stay here, you'll be surrounded by the investigation, and you'll have to face the press all the time. You could live at the Residence and never come out, I suppose, but you'd be miserable. You know you would. And your parents . . . Miles, they really think this is for the best. And I do, too, as much as I hate it."

"The doctors -" Miles began.

"I tried that. Your mother pointed out that they can't do anything for you right now. And they can visit, too." Gregor shook his head. "I tried, Miles. But they're right."

"I don't want to go," Miles said softly.

Gregor's breath caught. Perhaps this was the one thing that could save them. "Truly?" he asked.

"I . . . I don't want to leave you. More than anything, I don't want to leave you."

"I'll be there as much as possible. Think of the long lake, Miles, and how beautiful it will be."

Miles lay back and looked up at Gregor. "It'll be the dead of winter," he said, but there was capitulation in his eyes.

"It will still be beautiful. Peaceful. Calm."

"A right and proper place, as Sergeant Bothari used to say."

_A right and proper place to die_, Gregor thought, and wondered if Miles might be thinking the same thing. Perhaps Cordelia and Aral were, as well. Was this giving up? Gregor wondered. Was this resigning themselves to the end? Or was this doing what was best for Miles? He simply didn't know. After a moment, Gregor said, hoping to lighten the mood and chase the frown off Miles's face, "I could send Negri with you, if you'd like."

Miles's lips quirked. "Thanks," he said. "But, ah . . ." He patted Gregor's arm. "I think you need him more." Gregor managed a faint half-smile, and rested his cheek on top of Miles's head.

"I'll go," Miles said, after a long stretch of silence. "But we'll talk every day."

"Of course."

"And you'll come up as soon as you can."

"Yes."

"Okay then." Miles set his coffee aside, and turned and kissed him. Gregor returned it, gently at first, and then hungrily as it became clear that Miles had more in mind than simply sealing the agreement. The kiss became familiar motions and words, and then soft caresses in the brightening bedroom, and finally lovemaking that was slow and desperate all at once, and almost silent. There was so much to say, Gregor thought, and no way to say it other than with the language of their bodies, which had grown to be so easy and so natural between them in the last four years.

It only occurred to Gregor afterwards, when Miles had fallen asleep again, that it might have been the last time. He felt the realization like a knife in his own gut, a sharp, sudden pain that made him tremble briefly, as he sat on the edge of Miles's bed. He told himself it wasn't necessarily true, that Miles would be healthy enough for days, maybe even weeks. But he was going to the lake house and Gregor wasn't, and that time would be gone in a blink.

He tried to remember all the times in the last four years when they had made love. _Not enough_, he thought, as he stood to dress again. So often there had been something keeping them apart, work or distance or just time. None of it seemed the least bit important anymore, though of course it had at the time. But in the end, if nothing - if Allegre and Ghale and the agents on Jackson's Whole - if nothing succeeded, those memories would be all Gregor had left.


	9. Chapter 9

This certainly wasn't Ivan's first stint of Miles-sitting detail. He hadn't done it a lot - the duty usually fell to more trustworthy heads, people who didn't respond to "Ivan you idiot" like it was their legal name. But he'd done it a few times over the years, and it had never been quite like this.

As Miles settled back in his clinic bed and Ghale fussed with a mass of tubing and whirring machinery in anticipation of the procedure, the closest parallel Ivan could draw was that tense, fraught winter, four years ago exactly, when Miles had been fired and Ivan had been assigned to flight/stupidity/suicide watch. This wasn't so very different in the pertinent details.

"Stay with him as much as possible until we leave for the lake," the Count had said, one hand heavy on Ivan's shoulder. "Except for that one incident, there haven't been any signs of violent tendencies so far. But stay close. Keep him entertained and happy while the doctors do the blood filtering." He'd hesitated, the weathered lines of his face setting in a hard-edged expression. "And try not to let him be alone with Gregor. Talk about a tragedy if he were to -"

"I understand," Ivan had said hastily.

So here he was, waiting for Ghale and his lackeys to finish setting Miles up for this marathon filtering session, so he could entertain Miles and keep him from trying to kill anybody. Exactly the same. So why did bile keep rising into his throat?

The doctors withdrew at last, leaving Miles with blood flowing out of one arm, through a complex, bulbous machine at the head of the bed, and back into the other arm. Not a perfect solution, Ghale had explained earlier, but given Miles's wonky physiology and general tetchiness when it came to drugs, the better option. He hoped to get at least a good portion of the pre-poison still floating around in Miles's blood.

Ivan took a breath and pulled up a chair. "So," he said gamely. "Did you hear the one about the Komarran, the Barrayaran, and the goat?"

His thoughts kept wandering, Ivan found, as the afternoon wore on and he worked through his standard 'keeping Cousin Miles entertained and out of trouble' routines. Miles was unusually docile, though Ivan was inclined to think it was distraction rather than a symptom. His cousin napped for an hour or two, eyes falling shut without consulting him. Ivan let him sleep. This weariness, Ghale had informed them, would slowly increase. _Of all the ways I thought Miles would go, sleeping himself to death was never one of them_.

Gregor popped in for just a moment while Miles was asleep. He greeted Ivan absently, brushed Miles's cheek with a fleeting touch, and promised to be back for dinner. Looking at Gregor was difficult, Ivan reflected as the Emperor left. Gregor wore his self-possession as seamlessly as always, and it wasn't as if his smiles had ever been quick to come. But now, in the day since they'd learned that Miles was dying, it was as if something was screaming behind Gregor's calm eyes. It gave Ivan chills.

Miles shifted, yawning himself awake and twitching irritably at the abbreviated range of motion allowed in his arms.

"Don't do that," Ivan said automatically, but his heart wasn't in it. It was too busy plunging toward his boots, riding a wave of sudden, stark logic, so obvious that he'd just realized it now. "Erm, Miles?" he said, half-strangled.

Miles stopped tugging and looked at him. "What?"

Ivan shifted awkwardly, color rising in his face. He didn't think he'd ever felt quite so much like a petty son-of-a-bitch in his life, and that was really saying something. But he needed to ask, and all things considered, he'd rather it be Miles than Gregor right now.

"Um," he said. "Look. I don't mean this to sound - but, um."

"Spit it out," Miles said irritably. That, too, was a symptom, at least according to Ghale. In hindsight Ivan supposed Miles had been somewhat more irascible than normal even before his collapse. Particularly, as Uncle Aral had pointed out, that night at the bar (though to be fair, Ivan thought, he'd been ready to punch Mathieu Vorsoisson himself; Miles had just gotten there first). But it hardly stuck out for a guy under a great deal of pressure who had never run on what could be called an even keel to start with.

"Well," Ivan said, pushing it out all in one quick burst, "the only reason I was declared Heir was so I could hold the spot until you and Gregor had your brats. But what if you don't?"

Miles mouth, half-open, snapped shut. "Oh," he said.

"I don't mean to say -" Ivan began. "It's just, I was never supposed to be the _real_ heir. That's why you picked me, for God's sake. If . . . if . . ."

"Gregor's only thirty-nine," Miles said. His face was amazingly blank. "There's nothing to stop him from finding someone else."

Ivan snorted. "Oh, please."

"I'm serious."

"So am I. Come on, this is Gregor. He waited for you for ten bloody years. You're . . . all he sees is you. It could happen, sure, but I would be damn surprised."

"Huh," Miles said noncommittally. His eyes turned away from whatever faraway vision they had been contemplating and settled on Ivan with worrying intensity. "No one ever said you aren't the real heir," he said. "If Gregor had died in the past four years, you would have been it. It doesn't get more real than that."

Ivan crossed his arms over his chest. "Bite your tongue."

"You don't think you could do it?" Miles asked curiously.

"Think, nothing. I know I couldn't."

Miles shrugged. "Maybe. I know you think so. But I've always believed that we can never see the exact shape of our own potential. That's the wonder of it, y'know, we can't see that far."

"Yes, well, I really don't want to find out, thank you," Ivan said defensively.

"We do what we can," Miles said, almost gently. "More than that, we do what we must." He paused, a frown creasing his forehead. He was silent for so long that Ivan shifted uneasily in his chair, thinking Miles had perfected the art of falling asleep with his eyes open. He jumped when Miles cursed, a short, sharp spate of invective that had him simultaneously checking his blindspots, the heart monitor, and the accessibility of the nearest sharp objects. "We do what we can," Miles repeated, clearly speaking to himself. "Damn. Damn stupid."

"Er . . ." Ivan began.

"Get Ghale for me, will you?"

"Are you all right?" Ivan asked, half-rising.

"Fine." Miles waved an imperious hand. He suddenly didn't look at all distracted. "Just find Ghale, then make yourself scarce for a while."

Half-alarmed and half-relieved, Ivan obeyed, fetching the doctor and then, prodded by Miles, retreating off to the corridor. He was left to pace for a full half hour, with nothing to do but wonder what the little shit could be up to in there. It was the shifts in Miles that were more discomfiting than anything else, Ivan thought, the way he could go from fuzzy-headed to sharp-edged in the span of a few seconds. He supposed they should be grateful for the moments of clarity, but they made the minutes in between that much worse.

At last a slightly wide-eyed Ghale let him back in. He took himself off before Ivan could get anything out of him, and Miles was remarkably uncommunicative for the remainder of the afternoon. Ivan finally gave up enticing him to conversation, and settled back to brood and watch the lines on the monitors twitch.

Gregor arrived that evening, followed shortly by dinner. Ivan gave up his chair to him and retreated to the other side of the room where he ate quietly, trying to be unobtrusive.

Gregor did a better job at holding Miles's interest over dinner than Ivan had all afternoon. It really wasn't fair though, Ivan decided. Gregor could recite the registry of Vorbarr Sultana residents and Miles would pay attention. The rest of them just had to work a lot harder at it.

"Alys tells me you've chosen music for the betrothal," Gregor said over dessert.

Miles looked up, considered him a moment, then set down his spoon. "I'd like to go ahead with the planning," he said.

"I had gathered that."

"Do you not like the music?"

"I think they're lovely choices."

"I'm going to end up back here by the end of Winterfair either way," Miles said quietly. "And no matter how it comes out, I'd like to think there'll be a pretty big party."

Ivan had to look away from the momentary clench of agony that crossed Gregor's face. "I don't object," he said. "I was just curious."

Miles was silent, picking absently at the light blanket. "I'd like to swear to you," he said slowly, "that I'll stand with you in the ballroom on the last day of the year and make you my betrothal promises. I'd like to give you my word that I will, even if they need a troop of palace guards to prop me up."

One month and eleven days, Ivan realized with a start. They were to be betrothed on the last day of Winterfair and the year, just before the bonfire and the fireworks. By Ghale's projections, Miles would be on his deathbed then.

"I think maybe I will swear it, if you don't mind," Miles said. "I might be foresworn, but then again keeping my word matters a great deal to me."

"If it will help," Gregor agreed.

"All right then. I give you my word as Vorkosigan. We will be legally betrothed at the end of Winterfair."

He sat back, clearly satisfied with this. Gregor, on the other hand, looked increasingly intent.

"If you want," he said slowly, "we don't have to wait. We could do it now - tonight. Hell, we could have the bloody wedding next week if it will make you happy, if it matters to you that much."

Miles actually seemed to consider this for a moment, and Ivan held his breath. But then Miles shook his head. "No," he said. "I think just the betrothal will do. It's sufficiently legally binding, I think. And it doesn't really matter to me, to be perfectly honest. Might be important to you though, later."

Gregor blinked, obviously as puzzled by this as Ivan was. But all he said was a cautious, "If you like."

"Besides," Miles added, giving him a look full of . . . something. "We've done a hell of a lot of work to get here. I'm not about to blow it now. We'll wait for Winterfair, and be betrothed in front of God and planet like we planned. We're not going to bungle the whole thing now on the off chance I don't make it." He smiled. "That would be highly annoying, wouldn't it?"

Gregor held silent vigil throughout the night. Ivan considered pointing out that he was doing no favors for the shadows under his eyes, but in the end restrained himself. Miles was set to depart for Vorkosigan Surleau late the next afternoon, and what with the impending Komarrans, no one could exactly predict when Gregor could visit. The excuse for Miles's absence, they had decided, would be that an old combat injury was compromising his recovery from his heroically obtained wound. Not inaccurate in any detail, when it came right down to it.

Miles was sleeping again when Ghale finally, at long last, came in to take him off the machine. He woke groggily and looked around, disoriented, until his gaze alighted on Ivan and the confusion cleared. He looked up at Ghale. "Did it work?" he asked, suppressing a yawn.

"I don't know just yet, my lord." Ghale, bent over the machine, nodded to a technician, who swooped in and drew a vial of blood. "We should know by the time you're dressed and ready to leave."

Ivan helped Miles into his clothes, and though he snapped at Ivan about how he didn't need anyone to dress him just yet, thank you, it was clear that he was moving stiffly. "Did you sleep at all?" Miles asked him, almost accusingly.

"Not really," Ivan said. "But I took some personal leave, so I can sleep the rest of today."

Miles grunted and sat down on the bed to await Ghale's return. "We're leaving for the lake this afternoon," he said after a few moments of silence.

"I know."

Miles sighed. "I don't know if that's the right thing to do or not, but everyone else seems to think it is." He glanced at Ivan and said, "Will you be able to make it up to visit?"

"Yes," Ivan said. His leave of absence would start next week. He and Miles had discussed it, only six hours earlier.

Ghale returned, smiling. "Well, Lord Vorkosigan, I'm pleased to have good news for you for once."

"It worked, then?"

"Yes," Ghale said. "Fairly well, anyway. The blood tests we just ran do indeed show a significant drop in the level of pre-poison in your blood stream."

"Excellent. Does this change your prognosis?"

Ghale grimaced. "It doesn't, unfortunately. There is already a great deal of the poison present in your brain tissue. I hope that the procedure may slow the exponential rate of the damage, but I'm not entirely certain."

"I see." Miles glanced at Ivan and then looked back to Ghale.

"There is one more thing," Ghale said. "We may be able to come up with something to alleviate the symptoms on a temporary basis."

"Oh?" Miles said with a spark of interest.

"Yes, my men are working on it as we speak. If they succeed, it would cut down on the tremors and the memory lapses, perhaps even help your energy level." He lifted a hand. "Don't mistake me, this would be a great drain on your resources, not to be used daily. Or at all, if you can help it."

"I understand." Miles's face worked for a moment, in what emotion Ivan couldn't say, and then settled back into its blank, attentive mask. "Still," he said, straightening, "that would be very helpful. Thank you, doctor. Please keep me updated while I'm away."

"Of course, Lord Vorkosigan." The medical team excused itself and Miles hopped down off the bed. Pym, who had arrived to drive Miles home, was finally allowed in to collect the two of them and take them back to Vorkosigan House.

"What was the point of that?" Ivan asked in the groundcar on the way home. "I mean, really. If it doesn't change the prognosis at all -"

"It might," Miles corrected mildly. "He wasn't sure. It might end up making a difference." He looked out the window pensively for a moment and then said, "And we had to try. I have to try, everything I possibly can. Or I might as well just lie down and die right now."

*~*~*

Miles and his parents left for Vorkosigan Surleau the day after his blood filtration treatment. Gregor was not there to see them off; his job did not stop for personal tragedies short of someone actually dying - and sometimes not even then. He didn't hear from Miles until late that evening, as he lay exhausted and wakeful in his bed. They had a strange, stilted conversation, and for one of the few times in the long years they had known each other, Gregor felt there wasn't much to say.

He was tempted to keep the comlink open simply for the illusion of being near each other, but he knew that Miles needed sleep. They said good-night, and cut the com. The silence in Gregor's room felt deeper, somehow, afterward.

Gregor had always been something of a morning person, but it had been a late night, the most recent in a growing string of them. So it wasn't too surprising that it took him a while to pick up on the fact that there was something decidedly . . . weird afoot. Everyone from his valet to his Armsmen kept giving him unmistakably peculiar looks. He could have sworn he saw some people concealing grins behind their hands. Others just frowned thoughtfully, glances strangely assessing.

Lady Alys met him in his outer office, coifed to perfection even at dawn.

She nodded gravely to his good morning, but did not outright respond for several moments. Instead she stood, looking at him through strangely soft eyes. At last she leaned up, kissed his cheek, and murmured in a muffled voice, "You are a dear boy, sometimes."

Gregor blinked down at her, startled, but before he could inquire exactly what he'd done to earn that, she was back to her usual brisk self, handing him his schedule for the day and chatting informatively about the habits and tastes of the newest Komarran councilwoman and her husband, with whom he would be lunching.

Allegre walked into his office for the morning security briefing with Gregor's cup of coffee in one hand and his usual stack of flimsies and a comconsole disk in the other. Gregor accepted the cup of coffee gratefully.

"Good morning, Sire," Allegre greeted, and seated himself at Gregor's gesture.

"Good morning," Gregor said. "Anything interesting happen last night?"

"Of course, Sire," Allegre said, his usual response without his usual smile. "First of all, I have an update from Jackson's Whole."

Gregor sat up immediately. "Yes?" he said, very still.

"We may have a lead. Bharaputra labs received an order for a very particular neurotoxin over a year ago. The commission matches the projections we've received from Lord Vorkosigan's medical personnel. We don't have a buyer - both request and payment were routed through hundreds of identities, and it will take a long time to sort it all out. This isn't a certain match, but it's the best we have so far."

"Is there an antidote?" Gregor asked. He hardly dared to breathe. He felt as though he'd spent the last few days held underwater, and was now rushing up to the surface, for a breath of fresh air.

"Unknown," said Allegre.

Gregor made some fast calculations. It was two weeks from Jackson's Whole to Barrayar; perhaps with a very fast courier, the trip might be made in twelve days, but that was the absolute minimum. Which meant that in order for the antidote to reach them before the damage to Miles's body was irreparable, it would have to be retrieved in the next ten days.

"I would like you," he said slowly, "in your next communiqu to reiterate that they are to do whatever is necessary. If they can find out who ordered it, so much the better, but the main thing is to get us the antidote."

"Yes, Sire." Allegre made a note and then looked up. "And now . . ." He handed Gregor the disk. Gregor raised an eyebrow in question, but Allegre simply gestured for him to slip it into his comconsole and see for himself.

It was a recording of a newsvid, it seemed. One of Barrayar's most popular holovid reporters, a striking blond woman who had - in Gregor's experience - the personality of poisoned honey, smiled back at him and said, "The top story at home the last few weeks has, of course, been Emperor Gregor Vorbarra's announcement of his upcoming betrothal to Lord Auditor Miles Vorkosigan, son of Admiral Aral Vorkosigan and heir to the Vorkosigan Countship. This announcement has been met with an incredible variety of emotions: anger, outrage, disbelief, curiosity, and even joy. Some have been very suspicious of Vorkosigan's motives, doubting the couple's claim that it is indeed 'true love'. But tonight, we have something that may put those suspicions to rest. A letter to Lord Vorkosigan, in the Emperor's own hand, has come to light."

"Oh God," Gregor said in a strangled voice.

The picture changed from the blond woman's face to a shot of the letter itself. The familiar parchment complete with Vorbarra crest and watermark, his own handwriting . . . Gregor suddenly wished quite fervently that he were dead. This was not bloody fair of them, to parade his words - meant only for Miles, _always_ only for Miles - as if they were everyone's business. Not. Bloody. Fair. He briefly but seriously considered pulling a few strings; he could make it so that blond woman never even came within 50 meters of a holovid again.

No. That would be unjust of him, especially since there were far more people behind this than her. She was just the most visible.

But then a male voice, probably the closest approximation to his own that they could find on short notice, began reading the letter aloud and he almost changed his mind.

". . . before you, I didn't know I had the potential for such things, to go the places you bring me. I know better, now."

He'd never questioned the impulse that had put pen to paper again and again. There was something in the writing that slipped right past the guard he kept over his tongue, the careful weighing and measuring of every word that was second nature by now. But the words and thoughts fell on the paper without any strain or shyness, unchecked and easy as exhaling. He knew he was not an overwhelming person, not like Miles who could lift you up and sweep you along with him wherever he wanted. Gregor's own awkwardnesses, moments of tongue-tied inarticulacy and personal reserve were masked well enough by the careful application of discipline and attention. But one did not deeply touch anything with discipline, and he longed to rock Miles the way he himself was shaken, riveted. He liked to think the letters did that, sometimes.

". . . you raise a storm in me with a look, and then lay it to rest with a word. I'm sometimes overwhelmed by the fear that you will be taken away from me, by our enemies or by accident. There may come a time when I will have to continue breathing in a world where you no longer do. I want to press you between the pages of my memory, against that day. You frightened me, very much."

Ah, he remembered now. He had written this still riding the wake of his passing anger, alone in his study as Miles was sewn up and patched back together at ImpMil after an idiotic stunt on a case. Was the letter dated? No, he saw, with relief.

". . . I feel more with you, greater souled, as your mother would say. You up the amplitude of life for me, and when I reach for the future, for Barrayar's course and my own, it is in your name. Please don't take that away from me. I know very little some days, it seems, but I have come to know that I am yours, for as long as you will have me. Gregor Vorbarra."

"Isn't that sweet?" the blond woman cooed when the man's voice had faded and the holovid returned to her.

Gregor turned it off abruptly and stared at the black viewplate. "Guy?" he said.

"Yes?"

"You know that gravitic imploder lance in the basement?"

". . . yes?"

"I want to use it."

He looked up in time to see Allegre's lips quirk in a definite smile-shape. "Sire," he began carefully.

"How did they find that?" Gregor demanded. "_No_ one, except Miles, myself, and a few of my Armsmen know about those letters. Or at least they didn't until now." _Now everyone and their great-grandmother knows. Someone please, just kill me now_. "What happened?"

"That's what I want to find out, Sire. Are you sure that Lord Vorkosigan received this letter?"

"Yes. I must have written that about eighteen months ago."

"I see. I will discover the leak, Sire, you can be sure of that."

"This isn't a real security issue, is it? You can't arrest those people" - a wave of his hand indicated the holovid - "for - for treason or - or tastelessness."

"No, Sire. But I am concerned with the invasion of your privacy, and with how exactly this happened." Allegre paused. "Actually, Sitzen is quite pleased. I passed him on his way in, and he said that this is really the best thing that could have happened."

"How," Gregor said slowly, "can having my most private affections strewn all over the public arena possibly be the best thing that could have happened?"

"Well," Allegre said, "Sitzen seemed to think that it was very positive publicity."

So would Miles, come to think of it. Gregor rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Guy, I think it's time to move on to other topics."

"Yes, Sire." Allegre glanced down and shuffled his flimsies. "The eastside."

Gregor had almost forgotten about that project. "Ah?" he said.

"It's proceeding as we expected. There is resistance, but Jump Juice junkies aren't very capable of organizing themselves, so it's scattered, intermittent. Nothing our people can't handle."

"And the rehab programs?"

"They're going well. The mortality rates are dropping as the medical staff learns more about the effects of the drug. The first batch of patients is due to be released in a week."

"Well, that's good to hear," Gregor said with a sigh, though he knew that many of those patients would find themselves back in rehab again and again. That was how it worked with such things. "But I don't think anything will be permanently achieved until we find that domestic lab. One would think something that big would be easy to locate."

Allegre nodded, wincing minutely at the gentle prod. "Domestic Affairs is working on that right now, Sire."

"Good," Gregor said. "What else?"

Allegre completed the morning's business and bowed himself out. Gregor leaned his elbows on his desk for a moment and rubbed idly at his temples, attempting to banish the headache that was constantly with him these days. He supposed that he should go see Sitzen and discuss how best to capitalize on this leak before the preliminary Komarran meetings began, but the option of hiding in his office until someone forced him to come out was more appealing. Most appealing of all was canceling the meetings all together and having his driver take him up to Vorkosigan Surleau immediately. Unfortunately, that was not an option. The delegates were already put out enough over being rescheduled and forced to relocate to Barrayar. The Komarrans - not overly thrilled with his engagement to the son of the Butcher - would be livid if Gregor canceled altogether.

There was a knock at the door and his majordomo stuck his head in. "Sire?" he said. "They're waiting for you in the Green Room."

Gregor stood up. "Tell them I'm on my way."

_Five days_, he thought. He would have these meetings done with, come hell, high water, or angry Komarrans, in five days.

*~*~*

Ekaterin hesitated before climbing out of the autocab. She sat for a moment, hand on the door release, peering out the window at Lord Ivan Vorpatril's apartment building. It was located in an upscale part of Vorbarr Sultana, full of similarly shiny, high-rise complexes, populated primarily by young bachelor Vor officers. Lord Ivan was perhaps a bit old for such a milieu; it seemed the sort of place one usually moved into as an ensign and then out of after a few years, but apparently he'd never bothered.

The ImpSec agent stationed outside his building checked her identification before allowing her to press the buzzer. She almost decided not to do so at all, but a vision of the dark and abandoned Vorkosigan House rose behind her eyes, and she gathered her courage. It had been disturbing to take the garden revision plans over and find, instead of the bustling, busy household she was used to, only silence. The tight-lipped guard had said only that the Vorkosigans were gone to the house on the long lake, and he didn't know when they would return. Coupled with the whispers she couldn't help but hear all over the city . . . well. Here she was, wasn't she? Standing on Lord Ivan's doorstep in the dwindling light, hoping for answers.

There was no response for a full twenty seconds after she rang the buzzer, though she knew by the presence of the guard that he must be home. Finally a startlingly slurred voice came through the speaker, asking, "Whossit?"

Ekaterin blinked. "Madame Vorsoisson," she replied. There was a pause and then some muffled swearing. She raised her eyebrows at the guard, who merely looked back at her impassively. "Lord Ivan," she said firmly, "I have some questions. And I want answers." She paused; still he did not buzz her up. "Please," she tried, glancing at the guard again, "I'm worried about Miles."

He said a single, foul word in an under voice, and then the buzzer sounded, startling her into jumping.

She found him leaning in the doorway to his apartment on the fourth floor, ignoring the second ImpSec guard as though he were furniture and clutching a bottle. He waved her in with it and shut the door. He wore wrinkled black fatigues and white socks that looked as though they might have been pulled from the dirty laundry. His black hair was a bit greasy and very tousled, and the dark bags under his eyes made him look . . . old, which was very strange for someone whom Ekaterin thought of as being permanently stuck at eighteen. The apartment was dark, the shades drawn, the lights out.

"Lord Ivan," she began formally, but stopped as he threw himself on the sofa and took a great swig from the bottle. She took her coat off and, after some deliberation, folded it over the back of a chair. She surveyed him with dismay and said, "I think you've had enough."

"Not nearly, madam," he replied. "Not nearly." He peered at her - his eyes were alarmingly bloodshot - and asked politely, "Would you like some?"

She was starting to think she might. Instead she sighed and went into the kitchen, rustled up a clean glass, filled it with water from the tap, and returned to thrust it at him, with an imperative, "Drink it all."

To her surprise, he obeyed. She sat across from him in an uncomfortable armchair that looked as though it might have been a gift from his mother, and waited. When he was done, he set the glass down with a thud and looked at her. "I wish you hadn't done that," he sighed.

"I need you to tell me what the -" She cut herself off, and then remembered Miles's laughing comments about her oversocialization. She finished bravely, "What the hell is going on. And you can't very well do that while . . . inebriated." She could not quite bring herself to use a more colorful term for what he was, though she knew several.

He slumped back, staring up at the ceiling. "But I'm not sober," he said flatly. "I'm drunk, depressed, and nauseous."

"Lord Ivan," she said firmly. "I want to know - _right now_ \- what's wrong with Miles." Because it was dreadfully obvious that something was. "He cancelled his entire schedule nearly a week and a half ago, and no one's had more than a glimpse of him since. And now it seems he's left the city. I've heard a dozen different stories, all unsubstantiated, all vague, and I hope to God all untrue."

"What's it to you?" he demanded with sudden ferocity, glaring. "What right do you have? What are you to him?"

_Nothing_, was the truthful answer. Nothing official, anyway. Not family, like Ivan. Not his lover and fiancé, like Gregor. She had no right to anything. But she lifted her chin and said, quietly, "His friend." He looked away, and she forged on, refusing to be dismissed, "How would you feel if you were in my place, knowing something was wrong but no one thinking to tell you what?"

He sighed. She realized, of course, that she was looking at an old Vor pain management strategy in action, thankfully one that she had never employed during her years with Tien. Not that Vor women were usually allowed such luxuries. Men drank their pain, but women swallowed it whole. Things must be worse than the rumors had said, for Ivan to be like this. She sucked in a quick breath. "What's happened?"

"He's dying," said Ivan, not looking at her.

An icy hand clenched her insides, from her stomach to her lungs, so it was a moment before she asked, "How?" And how long.

He let out an audibly shaky breath. "Goddamn Jacksonian nerve toxin was on the knife. Wasn't supposed to kill Gregor - we'd have taken care of that later. Don't like mad emperors, do we? But nothing works like it's 'sposed to with Miles, and it's killing him."

"Oh." There was a long silence. "I think I'll take that drink now." He grinned at her without joy, and sloshed some of the amber liquid into the empty water cup. She took a first wincing sip, discovered it was brandy, and said, "Is there anything they can do?"

Ivan shrugged. "They're trying to steal the antidote from Jackson's Whole. Gonna piss the bastards off, but Gregor doesn't care." He paused, brooding, and added, "He won't fold. Gregor, I mean. He didn't before and he won't now. Fucking bastards." He nearly spat the last, and followed it with a swig straight from the bottle, as though to wash the foul taste out of his mouth.

Ekaterin didn't respond. She hadn't expected this . . . hadn't she? Hadn't she come here because she was worried? She'd imagined any number of disasters, some political, some personal. But at the same time, she'd never thought that anything could be seriously wrong with Miles. He was too determined, too stubborn, too . . . too energetic for anything to really hurt him. It'd have to catch him first, after all. He'd bounced back from the stabbing as though it were nothing - well, not nothing, perhaps, but he'd survived and then some. Or so they'd all thought.

The silence stretched. After awhile, Ekaterin began to think that Ivan had fallen asleep. She was about to get up and let herself out when he spoke, sounding much less drunk. "I keep thinking this can't be it." His head turned, barely visible in the dark of the apartment. "He can't go out this way, all quiet-like in his bed at the lake house. It's not Miles. He won't let himself."

Ekaterin stayed quiet and forced herself to listen. She had the sudden feeling that it had been some time since anyone had done that for Ivan. Perhaps, she thought, they all assumed he didn't need it. But was it because they overestimated him or underestimated him? Or both? Probably he even did it to himself.

"You'd think we'd all be used to it by now," Ivan continued. "Four years ago there were three attempts right in a row . . . five years ago the little bugger got his chest blown out. But it was all so . . . Milesian." He smiled, briefly, oddly.

She frowned, puzzled, and repeated, "Milesian?"

"Messy," Ivan said, waiving a hand and then letting it listlessly drop . "Bloody. Melodramatic. Dangerous to innocent bystanders. Not - not this."

"I see," Ekaterin said, though she didn't, not entirely. Her image of Miles as he had once been was fragmentary, pieced together from dozens of conversations with people who had known him then. Insane, half-suicidal, manic-depressive, split personality, hyperactive as hell . . . she didn't pretend to know Miles better than Ivan did, but she wondered if perhaps Ivan was fooling himself into thinking . . . what? That Miles hadn't changed? Or that Miles could stop himself from dying by sheer force of will? Ekaterin had seen for herself how strong the little lord's will could be. She found it hard to believe there was something he couldn't do. But a Jacksonian nerve toxin . . .

"Is he in pain?" she asked softly.

"I . . . don't know. Some, I think. But he's being stoic. Or . . . or maybe he's just calm." Ivan pulled in a quick breath. "I don't want him to be calm. He never used to be calm about anything, and I just can't . . ." He sounded choked, and Ekaterin resisted the urge to physically comfort him. It would be inappropriate, and would likely only embarrass him. Not to mention her.

"He drives me up a wall, you know," Ivan continued after several minutes of ragged breathing in the dark. "He has this way of making you do things. You know, I'm sure. And you'd never think they were a good idea, except he says they are and somehow they start to make sense . . . like this heir business. I don't want to be emperor. I never did."

"Which is why you're perfect for it," she pointed out gently.

He made a disgusted noise. "That's what _he_ said. And now, because he and Gregor never got the chance to start their brats . . . Damn," he whispered. "Damn them all."

He fell silent again. Ekaterin went and dumped the rest of her brandy down the sink, and refilled the glass with water. She held it out to him, and he took it without protest.

"I'm sorry," she said after he had drunk and set the glass aside. "Is there anything I can do?"

He shrugged, but then said, "Yeah, maybe. I know he'd like to see you. Gregor and I are going up in a few days. I'm not sure how long he's going to be able to stay, but I was going to stick around until - for as long as they need me. Would you come with us?"

"Oh," she said, shaking her head. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"But he'd love to see you and he . . ." He stopped, looked at her, and said, "It's me, isn't it? I was an ass to you at his birthday party. I'm sorry, I . . . I don't mean to be an ass, I just can't seem to turn it off, even when I want to. Like tonight. I'm sorry, I swear I won't . . . he'd like to see you. It would make him happy, and I don't want him to not - just because I'm an ass."

She managed to follow the garbled flow well enough to be alarmed. "All right," she said after only a small hesitation. "Yes, then." He relaxed back onto the sofa, head dropping to the arm.

She stood up, sensing that the time to leave had passed. She gathered her coat and made to show herself to the door. He jumped up belatedly and fumbled with the locks to let her out. She watched him, taking in the unsteady grip of the big hands, the slump to the broad shoulders, and then stopped him before he could open the door. "You're not an ass, Lord Ivan," she said, very quietly. "Stop thinking you are and maybe you'll be able to - to turn it off, as you say."

He nodded numbly, and she wasn't sure that she'd penetrated the drunken fog setting in around his brain. But she had tried.

*~*~*

Felice Vormuir had left him three messages. Ivan listened to the first one, then deleted them all halfway through the second. Why he'd given her his private comconsole code, he really couldn't say.

Oh, right. The content of the second message finally caught up to his brain, and he recalled that it was because she was possibly the most delightfully uninhibited Barrayaran woman he'd ever met. He briefly considered retrieving the messages and perhaps returning one, but then simply dropped his head into his arms and sighed. The analgesic had yet to kick in, his head was throbbing, he was due at work in less than an hour, and he had the horrible feeling he'd said more than he should have to Madame Vorsoisson. And beneath it all, he was simply and deeply exhausted.

_What would Miles do right now_? It was ironic, Ivan reflected morosely. That question had been an anti-guiding star for over a decade. All he had to do was figure out what Miles would think was a good idea, then find something as diametrically opposed as possible and go with that. It made for very peaceful days. Recently, however, he'd found himself turning this around, using Miles as a true compass while the man barricaded himself up behind walls of maddening passivity.

Miles, he decided, would sit up, finish going through his personal mail, get a cup of coffee, and go to work.

Ivan hauled himself upright after a few minutes of internal encouragement. He scrubbed once at his eyes, knowing they were hopelessly bloodshot. He looked back to the comconsole and selected the next message in the long string of inquiries and requests that had piled up during the past few days of neglect. He had a secretary now, a development he'd greeted with horror and relief, but she only handled official or public communications. And a truly astounding array of people seemed to be in possession of Ivan's private comconsole codes.

He squinted blearily at the screen, noting the unfamiliar sender. "Lord Ivan Vorpatril, blah blah blah, please communicate our demands to -" He bit his own tongue, yelped, sat up straight, and nearly surrendered to a wave of nausea. "Howy thuck," he breathed, sucking distractedly on his smarting tongue. He stared for a moment, then scrambled for the stack of secure comconsole cards in the top drawer. Allegre or Gregor first? - Allegre's card was on top, and he was relieved. Pure cowardice, perhaps, but let someone else look Gregor in the eye and tell him this one.

As it turned out, Ivan was right there at Allegre's shoulder when he delivered the news. He'd invited himself along almost against his will, and Allegre had acquiesced with the distracted irritation of a man who had much bigger things on his mind.

Gregor sat at his desk, breakfast untouched beside him, and read through the message three times. Ivan, who had only skimmed it the once, could still recite it rote perfect. ". . . will exchange possession of the antidote for the following concessions . . ."

At last, Gregor looked up. "What are the odds this is a hoax?" he asked.

"Slim," Allegre said grimly. "It was sent from a public terminal in the shopping district on the old Caravansurai. My agents took the terminal apart, but there was no record of sender. That takes some effort, and more than a little know-how." He shrugged. "It was also sent to Lord Ivan's private terminal, and though private may be something of a misnomer in his case, it is still not easy to come by those codes."

Gregor nodded, unsurprised. "This list of demands is . . . interesting," he said, finger tracing down the text. "Restricted off planet travel, breaking off trade relations with Vervane, Pol, Tau Ceti, everyone, pretty much. Reinstatement of the tight emigration regulations . . . and on and on."

"Isolationist fanatics," Ivan said, speaking for the first time.

"Perhaps," Allegre said. "We can't entirely dismiss the possibility that this is either a hoax or a ruse of some sort."

"Yes," said Gregor, in the tones of one who was not listening at all. "They have an antidote," he added slowly. "One does exist." His hands clenched hard on the edge of his desk, then relaxed. Ivan could sympathize - he, too, was inclined to take this at face value, wanted very badly to, in fact.

Allegre seemed about to say something, then thought better of whatever it was. "It's useful in any case," he settled on. "If it's real, it gives us information about what we're looking for. If not, it's still information."

Gregor nodded. One hand stole to touch the slim black wristband he wore. Then he drew it back and shook his head. "Better in person," he murmured to himself. "Let him rest today." He looked up, seemed to remember Allegre was there. "You know what to do," he said, opening both hands with a visible effort. "They've given us a week." His mouth hardened. "I'd like this to be over by then."

Allegre bowed. "Yes, sire. We shall do everything possible."

He withdrew, and Gregor sat still momentarily before clearing the message from his comconsole with a quick flick of the fingers. "All things considered," he said, and Ivan couldn't tell if he were being directly addressed or not, "all things considered, old enemies are easier. We know them so well by now." His hand stole to the wristcom once more. "But all the same, sometimes I do wish the old enemies would just give it up." He blinked once, looked straight at Ivan. "Was there something else?"

"Um." Ivan shifted uncomfortably. Just how drunk had he been to invite Madame Vorsoisson along with them to the lake? Should he tell Gregor now, or let him find out when the time came? Cowardice won again, and all he said was, "No, thanks. I was just, um. I'll see you tomorrow."

Gregor nodded, already distracted, and Ivan made himself scarce.


	10. Chapter 10

Ekaterin was trying very hard not to be intimidated. She told herself that she ought to be used to this by now. After all, she'd attended at least a half dozen parties at Vorkosigan House over the four years she'd known Miles, and she'd been formally introduced to the Emperor on several occasions. And Lord Ivan, while he _was_ the Imperial Heir, was really just . . . Ivan. Miles had always talked about both of them as though they were just normal people. Then again, Miles was working from his own, decidedly peculiar scale.

"Do you have everything, dear?" her Aunt Helen asked as she gathered her overnight bag.

"Yes," she said, and kissed her aunt on the cheek. She looked at her son. "Be good for your aunt and uncle, okay, Nikki?"

"Of course, Mother," he said, in the exasperated voice he used so often with her these days. The years of his adolescence stretched in front of her like an especially trying journey. She'd never intended to raise a teenage boy on her own, but somehow that was where she found herself now. Though considering some of the alternatives . . .

In any case, she just didn't have the time or inclination at the moment to tell him to stop slouching and watch his tone, so she merely kissed him on the cheek and waved good-bye as she crawled into the armored groundcar that Lord Ivan had sent to collect her.

"Nikki certainly has grown," Ivan said, startling her into turning away from the view of the receding house.

"Oh! Goodness, I didn't know you were there," Ekaterin said, a bit breathlessly. "Yes, he has."

"He's fourteen?"

"Thirteen."

"Ah." They fell silent. Ekaterin stared out the window, watching the neighborhoods grow in conspicuous affluence the closer they got to the Residence. This part of the city was old, dating back to the Time of Isolation, and the houses were large and ornate and treated more as historic landmarks than residences. People did still live in them, of course. Those who could afford to, at least. Ekaterin had heard, from some of Miles's acquaintances who lived around here - Vorvolk House was in the neighborhood, for instance - that owning one was really not all it was cracked up to be, what with the leaking roof and the plumbing that didn't always work. And then there was the fact that any repairs had to be approved by the Vorbarr Sultana Historical Commission. Ekaterin had started to think a bit more about houses recently, since in a few months' time she would have a reliable income of her own, perhaps even large enough for a down payment on a small house. There were some lovely ones in the neighborhood around Nikki's school, she thought. That would be convenient and practical.

"How is Miles?" she asked once the silence had grown uncomfortable.

Ivan shrugged. "A bit worse than when he left, is my impression. So about as expected."

"Are they any closer to finding an antidote?"

Ivan appeared to hesitate before saying carefully, "No, I don't think so."

The groundcar pulled up at the east entrance to the Residence, and the silent ImpSec agents piled out first to accompany them - Lord Ivan, rather - up the stairs. Ekaterin, who had almost succeeded in convincing herself that there was no reason to feel intimidated, experienced a wave of nausea as Ivan led her up the wide, spiraling staircase. Her steps were muffled in the deep pile of the carpet, and the entire building seemed much too quiet to be occupied. Surely with so many people living and working here, there should be more noise; there was more racket at her aunt and uncle's house with just the four of them. She swallowed her nerves and forced herself not to stop and gawk.

"Lord Ivan," an Armsman in the black and silver of the Vorbarra livery greeted, and then stopped, staring at Ekaterin. "I'm sorry, Madame, and you are . . ?"

"Ekaterin Vorsoisson," she answered.

He looked down to check his list, flipped a page, and glanced back up, a puzzled expression on his face. But before he could speak, Ivan said, "She's not on your list, Gerald. But she's with me."

"I see," the Armsman said with a faintly disapproving tone. "Lord Ivan, you know that all guests must be pre-approved -"

"Yes, yes, I know. Look, she's Lord Auditor Vorthys's niece and she's attended parties at Vorkosigan House with Gregor, so she's been cleared. I just didn't mention that she'd be coming along today."

_What_? Ekaterin snapped her head around to glare at Ivan, but he was resolutely not looking at her, as he was on the receiving end of another disapproving frown from the Armsman. "I see, m'lord. Just a moment." The Armsman turned and took the long, curving staircase at a jog.

"Lord Ivan," she hissed as soon as he had gone. "What do you mean you didn't mention I'd be coming along today?"

He looked at her with an expression that could only be described as sheepish. "I meant to," he said. "Or, well, I guess I didn't. But I did think about it yesterday when I saw Gregor."

"And why didn't you?"

"Well, the thing is . . ." He hesitated.

"What?" she snapped impatiently.

"You make Gregor sort of . . . uncomfortable."

"I make him uncomfortable?" Ekaterin repeated incredulously. "_I_ make _him_ uncomf -"

"Lord Ivan, Madame Vorsoisson," the Armsman broke in politely from the top of the stairs. "This way, please."

They mounted to the top and followed him down a long hallway, Ekaterin glancing around, trying to take in everything at once. Her nervousness, which had briefly been replaced by irritation with Ivan, came flooding back. It only got worse when Ivan leaned over and whispered, "We're in Gregor's private wing. His apartments are just on our left."

"Oh," she whispered back, and swallowed hard.

The Armsman showed them into an elegant waiting area. "Please have a seat, Madame Vorsoisson. Lord Ivan, the Emperor would like to see you."

Ivan sighed. "I'm sure he does." Ivan disappeared through another door and Ekaterin sat patiently, looking around the room and trying to distract herself by studying the d or. It was a lovely space, soothing to her aesthetic sense of line and color, and not at all what she had expected.

Ivan emerged looking chagrined a brief interval later, followed by the Emperor himself. Ekaterin rose to greet him, trying to detect any sign of the discomfort that Ivan had mentioned. There was nothing, but Miles had said more than once that the Emperor was extremely difficult to read, so perhaps she would not know even if Ivan were right. Which he couldn't be.

"Madame Vorsoisson," he said, taking her hand briefly. "A pleasure to see you again. I'm sure Miles will be delighted that you're able to come with us."

"Sire," she managed. She couldn't help but notice that he didn't say that _he_ was delighted.

A few minutes later they were in the Emperor's private aircar, well above the usual Vorbarr Sultana air traffic and heading south. Glancing out the window, Ekaterin could see the ImpSec aircars that flanked them. The Emperor, she noticed when she turned back, was also gazing out the window with a distracted, worried air. She watched him covertly, tried to see in him something of what Miles obviously did, tried to find some of the passion that must exist beneath the surface to allow him to have written that love letter being splashed all over the holovids. She had taken a strange sort of comfort from that letter, because it had put to rest her worries that this was some bizarre political match, as Miles's assurances had not quite done. Someone very deeply in love must have written it. And Ekaterin wanted that for him, more than she had ever wanted him for herself.

"Have you talked to Miles today?" Ivan asked the Emperor after several minutes of rather uncomfortable silence.

"Yes, early this morning," he replied. "He seemed . . . fatigued. But alert. He was looking forward to seeing us."

Ivan quirked an eyebrow. "His parents driving him crazy?"

"You could say that," the Emperor said, with a half smile.

"Does Miles know I'm coming?" Ekaterin dared to ask.

"Er . . ." Ivan said.

"Lord Ivan," she said in exasperation. "Did _you_ remember I was coming?"

"Yes!" he said indignantly. "I picked you up this morning, didn't I?"

"Well, you were rather indisposed the night I came by. I thought that perhaps it had slipped your mind once the hangover cut in." She clamped her mouth shut, aware that she had passed well beyond the bounds of politeness. It probably had not been at all kind of her to mention that in front of the Emperor.

"It didn't," Ivan said, slumping. Ekaterin caught a look of passing amusement on the Emperor's face, much to her surprise. It was the first real facial expression she'd seen him make since she'd arrived at the Residence.

They flew most of the way in silence. Ekaterin finally dug her handviewer out of her bag, called up one of the research texts for her final project and tried to work; the Emperor ran reports through his handviewer and did the same - or seemed to. She noticed that he rarely scrolled down the screen. Ivan also had a handviewer, but he spent much of the time staring sightlessly out the window. She wondered if Miles was as much on his mind as he was on hers. Strange that she had never quite grasped that they were so close. They were such different people: Miles so focused on politics and his responsibilities to Barrayar, and Ivan so bent on dodging the same. Well, perhaps that wasn't fair. Ivan didn't dodge his responsibilities - he was a captain, after all, not to mention the nominal heir to the Imperium. Ivan was incredibly loyal, Ekaterin reflected, but not to abstract concepts, like _Barrayar_ and _the Imperium_. Rather, it was people who commanded Ivan's loyalty - Gregor and Miles in particular.

At last they banked over a mountain range and the long lake came into view, spread out before them like a landing strip. The house lay at the far end, shimmering with frost in the late morning light, like something out of a Winterfair story. Ekaterin's stomach fluttered as they landed, from the motion of the aircar or nerves, she could not say. They glided smoothly into the garage and the ImpSec agents piled out to seal them in and secure the house.

Miles's father was waiting for them in the foyer. "Hello, Gregor, Ivan," he said, and then caught sight of her and raised his eyebrows. "Madame Vorsoisson," he said. "Ah, we didn't -"

"No," Ivan said with a sigh. "I invited her and didn't tell anyone. I thought it would make a nice surprise for Miles. You can string me up by my thumbs later."

"Nonsense," the Count said. "It's lovely to see you again, my dear." He glanced around at them, but allowed his gaze to rest on the Emperor as he said, "I'm very happy to see all of you." He turned to lead them through the house, speaking over his shoulder. "He's just finishing up breakfast with Cordelia on the sunporch. Have you eaten?"

"No," Ivan said.

"Yes," Ekaterin and the Emperor said.

"Ah. Well, I'll have Ma Kosti send something up. In here." The Count pushed the door open and gestured them through. Ekaterin saw that the sunporch was really a glassed-in area, with a stunning tableau of the grounds down to the frozen lake. Several comfortable chairs were arranged around an old wooden table, upon which the remains of breakfast were spread.

The Countess was seated opposite the door and saw them first. She broke off whatever she was saying and smiled widely, catching Ekaterin's eye and making her feel, for the first time since she'd set foot in the aircar, as though she were completely welcome and not, in fact, a barely tolerated intrusion. She leaned forward and said something to Miles, whose head was barely visible over the top of his chair, and then held him in place with the force of one extended hand. The Countess met the Emperor's eyes and gestured him forward; he went as though pulled by a string.

Ekaterin had never, until that lunch at Vorkosigan House just a few weeks ago, had any inkling that Miles and the Emperor were anything more than close friends. As she watched him drop to his knees beside Miles's chair, she wondered how she ever could have missed it. She could see nothing of Miles except the hand Gregor lifted between his own. Gregor's face, as he bent over it, cracked like the frozen lake in the spring. No one had ever looked at her like that, heart in his eyes ripe for the plucking, and as his expression flickered from relief to assessment to dismay, she was almost glad. She became aware that she was staring, and she hastily looked away, out the window towards the lake.

"Hey, coz," Ivan said, stepping around. "If you and Gregor are done, some of us haven't had breakfast yet and don't want to lose our appetites. Thanks, Aunt Cordelia," he added, as the Countess handed him a cup of tea.

"Shut up, Ivan," Miles said with good humor. The Emperor perched on the wide arm of his chair, accepting a mug from Cordelia with a grave nod.

"Now is that any way to treat me when I came all this way _and_ brought you a surprise?" Ivan said, feigning hurt.

"A surprise?" Miles said suspiciously. "What kind of surprise?"

"Good morning, Lord Vorkosigan," Ekaterin said, taking the cue. She stepped around the chair to come into his view.

"Madame Vorsoisson!" he said, with such delight that it made her face warm. "I had no idea you were coming."

"It was a bit of a last minute decision," she said. She stepped forward to take his hand, but was startled when he pulled her down to kiss her cheek.

"I'm so glad to see you," he said, as she seated herself in the chair the Countess gestured to.

She smiled and ducked her head. She was relieved when the Countess passed her a cup of tea and she had something to do with her hands. The four of them, she thought, were a very odd group, drawn together by affection for Miles, but really not all that much else. Whatever Miles said, she thought she had little in common with the Emperor - at least, nothing that they could ever discuss. As for Lord Ivan . . . well, he was Ivan. He could charm rocks, but only, she knew, if the rocks were willing to let him.

The Countess excused herself a few moments later, with a strangely pointed look at Ivan. Ekaterin sat back and listened to the conversation, which was mostly Ivan and Miles picking at each other with the particular viciousness of deep affection. The Emperor was also listening. Observing Miles, she thought. She let her gaze wander around the room before alighting on the table, which held a partially demolished breakfast; Miles's side of the table was barely touched.

After a half hour in which Ivan devoured breakfast, Miles's eyes began to droop. Ekaterin thought that it would have been polite to leave him and the Emperor alone, but Ivan didn't move, and so she stayed also. When Miles was really and truly asleep, the Emperor gave a long sigh and said to Ivan, "All right. It should be fine, now."

"What if he wakes up?" Ivan replied.

"There's been no sign of violence since that mess at the pub," the Emperor pointed out evenly. "And I'm much bigger than he is."

"That's what Vorsoisson thought, too," said Ivan. Ekaterin, who had read about the incident at the Bird and Bear with a certain horrified amusement, suddenly viewed it in a different light. "And Miles may be out of practice, but with his training -"

"I'm hardly defenseless," said Gregor. "In case you've forgotten."

Ivan sighed. "Take it up with Aral and Cordelia. I'm just following orders."

"I shall."

*~*~*

Gregor did take it up with Aral and Cordelia. While Miles slept, with Ivan and Madame Vorsoisson to watch over him, Gregor found his parents reading in their library. Before he had even opened his mouth, Cordelia said, "Gregor, it's for your safety, and his."

"It's ridiculous. It's paranoid," Gregor returned. "I will not let it come between us and what little time we might have left."

"Be reasonable, Gregor," Aral said, sitting up and looking angry for the first time. "If you won't take your own safety into account, then think of him. Think of how devastated he would be if he hurt you."

"He won't."

"You don't know that."

"Perhaps not," said Gregor. "But neither do I much care. I did not come here to have quietly chaperoned breakfasts and sleep up the hall with a troop of armed guards between his door and mine."

"Actually . . ." said Cordelia.

Gregor felt color rise to his face. "You must be joking," he said. "No. Absolutely not." He took a breath. "I'd like some time with him today. We have things to discuss."

"The Armsmen have their instructions," Aral said stonily.

Gregor's patience snapped. "Let me rephrase that, Aral. _We_ want some time with him today. Are We quite clear?" He could feel the pulse beating in his throat; he had defied Aral a handful of times in his life, and each was an exercise in unflinching will. He hadn't wanted to go this far, but they had left him little choice. They had already taken Miles away from him; they would not take this as well.

"Yes, Sire," Aral bit out, eyes flaring with anger. Cordelia said nothing, but her expression, when he dared to look at her, was disappointed - but also, he hoped, understanding.

After lunch, Cordelia took Ivan and Madame Vorsoisson on a tour of the house and Aral disappeared, Gregor didn't much care where to. Gregor and Miles were left alone in the cozy, fire-warmed room where they had eaten. They moved to the sofa before the hearth and Gregor permitted himself, at last, to hold and be held.

"My father's mad at you," Miles said.

"Yes."

"What did you say to him to get him to leave us alone?"

"It doesn't matter," Gregor said with a sigh. "I probably went too far. I'll apologize later."

"I wish the two of you wouldn't argue. Especially not now."

Gregor tightened his hold. "We'll be fine." He kissed the back of Miles's neck. "How are you?" he asked, afraid of the answer.

"I'm really not in much pain," Miles said.

"That's not reassuring."

"Sorry. I . . . it's strange. It comes on so steadily, it's almost hard to see. I get tired out by little things. Walking is difficult - feels like I still have those damn leg braces on. Cumbersome, clumsy. I can't pick up small things at all, my fingers just won't work the way I want them to. And, well, like Ghale thought, my neurotransmitter reservoirs are filling up much faster - I'm at about a seizure every four days now." He hesitated. "But mostly it's that I'm forgetting things I've known my entire life. There are times when I can't remember my way around the house or my Armsmen's names . . . stuff I shouldn't ever be able to forget."

"It's not just short term anymore, then."

"No. Though that's getting worse. Most days by one o'clock, I'm hardpressed to tell you what I ate for breakfast."

"Not much, by the looks of things," Gregor said with reproach.

"I haven't been hungry." Miles brought their entwined fingers up and brushed his lips against Gregor's knuckles. After a moment he said, so softly Gregor had to strain to hear him, "Yesterday I sat down to write you a letter and couldn't remember how."

Gregor stiffened. "What?"

"I knew all the letters. But I couldn't write them."

"Miles . . ." Gregor didn't know what to say to this. It had obviously shaken Miles more than any of the other signs of his gradual debilitation. "Are you telling your physician these things?"

"Yes," Miles said. "You can ask my mother, I've been a model patient for once in my life. I wouldn't mind a little return information, though."

"Yes," Gregor said on a sigh. "About that."

"Something happened, didn't it? About two days ago. My parents started acting strange and wouldn't tell me why, and then all of a sudden they said you were coming."

"I would have come anyway," Gregor said. "I just couldn't get away."

Miles turned in his arms and pressed trembling fingers to Gregor's lips. "I understand." Gregor captured his hand and tried to hold it steady between his own. "What happened?"

"I got a ransom message. For the antidote."

"Ah," Miles said, sounding entirely unsurprised. "I thought it was going to be something like that. What do they want?"

"Restricted off-planet trade and travel. Severe regulations on everything and everyone coming in and going out."

"Isolationist fanatics then," Miles said.

"It would seem so."

"Well, that's more than we knew before. Narrows the short list by quite a lot, actually." He was silent for a moment. "You can't negotiate."

"I know," Gregor said softly.

"It would set a dangerous precedent. And . . . I am not worth Barrayar's future."

_You_ are _my future_. Gregor swallowed with great difficulty, and nodded, his forehead pressed against Miles's so that he could feel the motion. "I thought about it," he confessed.

"Well sure," said Miles. "Me too. But I have the luxury of powerlessness."

They fell silent for awhile. Suddenly Miles said, in a much more cheerful tone, "So, the letter worked out well, didn't it?"

Gregor blinked. "What - oh. My God, you're as insane as Sitzen. I don't see how anyone can call that 'working out well'."

Miles shrugged in his arms. "We've gained ten points in the public opinion polls since then." He paused thoughtfully. "Though I'm not sure how much of that is sloppy sentiment and how much is respect for punching people."

Gregor snorted. "Your mother called it an 'upwelling of testosterone-driven solidarity.'"

"Ha," said Miles. "I suspect it also has to do with the ten thousand vengeful female Vorsoisson conquests." His dark lashes dropped, and when he looked up again he was entirely serious. "It's a beautiful letter. I think it surprised everyone. And if they had to get hold of one of the letters, thank goodness it was that one and not anything more - um."

"Yes," Gregor said, flushing. It really could have been much worse, he supposed. "I still want to know how they got it, though."

"Oh," Miles said. "Er, well, I might be able to answer that."

"Miles. You didn't."

"Didn't what? Oh, no, of course not! I wouldn't do something like that on purpose, of course not." He paused. "Well, not without asking you, anyway. But, well, you remember the week after the announcement, I went to the Ministerial reception?"

"Yes."

"And there were all those reporters there, of course."

"Yes."

"Well, you see, I wanted to reread that letter - it really is a beautiful letter -"

"You've said that already," Gregor said dryly.

"So I took it with me, and the closest Allegre can figure, someone got it from my coat after I checked it." He looked away. "And I forgot, and never noticed. Sorry."

"It's okay," Gregor said. "Everyone else thinks it's worked out for the best, so I'll try to get over it."

Miles nodded and fell silent again, closing his eyes and leaning his head against Gregor's shoulder. Gregor let himself drift on a sea of memories, and then bittersweet if-onlys. _No_, he thought, after only a few moments of self-pity. _If-onlys are for people who've given up. And I haven't given up_.


	11. Chapter 11

The scheduled trip to Hassadar the next day was a nerve-wracking exercise in timing and luck. They held off leaving through the late morning, when Miles's well-rested energy gave out and he sank into a long nap. They woke him only long enough to pile into the groundcar, and for the Count's personal physician to administer a dose of the neurotropic concoction Ghale had sent down. It was not, Ghale had stressed, a real solution, but rather a stopgap, and a dangerous one. It would boost Miles's energy, help him focus and concentrate, and give him greater control over the physical manifestations of internal damage, but he could not take it more than a few times before the adverse side effects would cancel out any benefit. After sitting through a list of these side effects, beginning with nausea and continuing on for a good ten minutes before finishing up with stroke and brain death, even Miles had promised extreme caution. Gregor was not entirely convinced that today's outing warranted such a measure, but Miles had insisted, and both Sitzen and Lady Alys had repeatedly emphasized the importance of this appearance. They needed to be seen healthy, happy, and together, to quash the various and numerous unpleasant rumors that had sprung up since Miles's withdrawal to the lake.

Miles slept most of the short flight from the lake to the District capital slumped in his seat, head tucked in the crook of Gregor's arm. The other passengers were silent, most in deference to his rest, though Gregor suspected the Count's icy, exquisite politeness wouldn't have cracked in any event. Miles began stirring fifteen minutes out of the city, and when he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and straightened up, he was more alert and focused than Gregor had seen him in . . . since before the stabbing. He wondered how he could have possibly have failed to notice the reduction of that vitality to a few guttering sparks.

The next few hours held the seductive allure of pretend. They set down in the central city square and disembarked to a throng of spectators, eager for a glimpse. Miles was the main attraction, and Gregor watched, heartsick and rather envious of his careless ease, as he charmed everyone within hearing range. The people of the Vorkosigan District had come to view Miles with a sort of stubborn, possessive pride which could, Gregor had little doubt, transmute to snarling defense if provoked.

"I'm something between a pet and a mascot," Miles had told him once, shrugging. "The people whose grandparents died at Vorkosigan Vashnoi know how to make do with what they have."

Miles at last allowed himself to be herded into the District offices. His eyes were bright as Gregor caught up to him, his color high from the excitement and the frosty air. Miles grinned up at him, clearly ebullient, and tucked Gregor's hand through his arm with a proprietary smirk that Gregor really should have objected to, but simply couldn't. It was so very easy to pretend, as Miles introduced him to the District staff and genuinely pleased congratulations rained down, that all was as it seemed. He was taking a day trip with his soon-to-be fianc - what Miles had laughingly called being 'promised to make a promise to make promises' - and all was right in their world.

They settled at last in a conference room upstairs, Miles at the head of the table with Gregor at one hand and Tsipis, an old family retainer whose name Gregor had heard tossed about, at the other. The discussions that followed were, in their own way, simultaneously wonderful and excruciating. They discussed the financial role the Vorkosigan District would play in the relatively small betrothal ceremony, and the alarming enormity of the wedding to follow. There was also the surprisingly complex matter of keeping separate Miles's future holdings as Gregor's Consort from his entitlements as the heir of the Vorkosigan Countship.

"I've had practice leading a double life before," Miles said cheerfully. "We'll manage."

They were planning for a ceremony - for a life - that might never happen. He was exhilarated and sickened, and no one at the table who knew of Miles's condition looked in any better state. Except for the man himself, who was maddeningly, delightfully cheerful.

They disbanded at last, having assigned the absent Mark an astounding array of duties and responsibilities that he was likely to throw a fit over once he was home. "It's the absentee tax," Miles said ruthlessly.

His energy seemed unflagging, but the Countess was firm as she urged them out to the square once more. They were taking no chances.

The crowd had, if anything, swollen even further since their arrival. Out of the corner of his eye, Gregor caught the exasperated look on Colonel Inceri's face as Miles stopped every other step along the ropeline to share words with someone. The mood was almost universally high, and Gregor couldn't blame him for enjoying it while he could. This was quite possibly the only place on all of Barrayar where the news of their betrothal had met with genuine celebration on Miles's behalf.

Gregor moved forward, Vortala at his heels. He was touched by a rare flare of showmanship, and he almost laughed at the surprise on Miles's face as he caught up Miles's hand and bowed in high, old-fashioned formality over it, much to the delight of the onlookers.

"Romantic sop," Miles mouthed up at him.

There was honestly nothing Gregor could say to that, so he restrained himself to a smile. He did, however, keep possession of the hand, and used it to steer Miles unobtrusively towards the waiting aircar. Miles let himself be towed for a few steps, but then he stopped, tugged briefly, then simply ducked away with a lithe twist. By the time Gregor turned and tracked him, he was warmly embracing a thin woman in well-worn but neat skirts and beckoning to the man hovering uncertainly behind her.

". . . to see you again," he was saying, as Gregor approached. He leaned past the woman, shook the man's hand, exchanged a few brief words Gregor couldn't hear. "You didn't come all the way down here just for me, did you?" he asked, grinning up at them.

She ducked her head, blushing prettily. "We caught a ride with one of the city folks who've been building cabins in the hills." She grinned back at Miles, a flash of genuinely affectionate bemusement in her eyes. "Besides," she added, "you're quite the spectacle nowadays. I wanted to be able to tell people that I knew you when."

Miles laughed outright. "I've always been a spectacle," he said. "I'm just better at it now. But did you bring your children? They must be taller than me by now." He glanced around, seeming to remember where they were for the first time. "Hell, Inceri is glaring at me again - he says he'll resign if I give him an ulcer. Come along with us, will you?" He became aware of Gregor at his shoulder and threw him his most winsome, entirely untrustworthy smile. "Some old friends of mine," he said brightly. "I've been longing for a good party, and here it comes, walking right up to me."

Gregor opened his mouth, and he could see the woman, flickering an intimidated glance in his direction then a dismayed one down at herself, doing the same. But Miles seemed set on their company, and he had them all moving for the car again, chattering companionably before Gregor was quite sure how he'd done it. He caught Cordelia's eye as she waited at the car, and shrugged at her raised eyebrow. If the man wanted company, and the company of these two in particular, then that's what he would have.

Miles properly introduced them in the quiet of the aircar. The couple were Lem and Harra Csurik, and Gregor returned their awed greetings with interest. He knew their names, of course, and he found himself curious now, with a chance to meet them that he had never anticipated.

The ride back to the lake house was much livelier than the earlier flight. Lem was a work-roughened, taciturn man, who smiled only rarely but always when speaking of his children. His wife chatted easily with Miles and the Countess, sharing stories of the small hill community from which she hailed, the people Miles knew there, the permanent doctor they'd enticed, and the very exciting arrival of two brand new uterine replicators won in the District lottery. She was quick, simply but directly spoken, and possessed of the sort of indomitable, immovable will that must have first attracted Miles.

The afternoon passed in a pleasant haze back at the lake house. Harra and Lem gave in to Miles's proddings and agreed to stay for dinner and let Pym pilot them home in Miles's much neglected lightflyer.

Ma Kosti had been moved down to the lake, and though she was puzzled by this unusual relocation, it didn't affect her skills in the least. They gathered in the dining room, a strange, bizarrely connected mob. The Count and Countess faded into the background, letting Miles handle hosting duties, which he did with unbridled enthusiasm. The meal was surprisingly boisterous and incongruously cheerful. Madame Vorsoisson, who had not come to Hassadar with them, got on with Harra like they'd known each other all their lives. Discussions of Komarran trade contingencies crossed those of the care and feeding of pre-teen boys quite comfortably, save for a brief lull during the salmon course. Catching Harra's uncertain eyes on him, Gregor was reminded of what a very awkward occasion this most likely was for Miles's guests, and realized that, wrapped up in his own rather dismal thoughts, he perhaps hadn't done all he could to make them welcome.

He cleared his throat. "Where exactly is Silvy Vale?" he asked. "I'm afraid my only first hand experience of the Dendarii Mountains was during the War of the Pretendership. I've always thought of the people fondly though; they were uniformly kind to me during my stay."

Harra smiled, seeming pleased. "It's in the southern part of the range, about half an hour from Hassadar by lightflyer."

"We used to pass it all the time, I think," Miles said, looking at Ivan, "when we went spelunking."

Lem nodded. "There's an entrance to the cave system about an hour's ride from Silvy Vale, though it's not the one most of the city folk who come up use."

"Is that getting to be more popular?" Miles asked. "Ivan and I never used to see anyone else. Of course, there are miles and miles of caves. I don't think we ever saw even a quarter of what's there."

Harra nodded. "There's a lot of city folk who come up on weekends now. It's good for towns like Silvy Vale - there're a few older men in the area who get some work as guides now. But it does change things."

"Yes, I imagine it does," Gregor said.

The only other awkward moment came when Harra caught Miles's eye from down the table and asked, all sisterly teasing, about the future Vorkosigan-Vorbarras. Gregor didn't know if she caught the brief silence that swept the table, or heard the uneasy edge in the chatter as it started again, but there was no way she could have missed Miles's start, the first crack in the façade of good cheer he'd been maintaining all day.

"I want a lot," Miles said, voice cutting easily through the other conversations, though he spoke quietly. "Two boys, at least, and I feel a sort of patriotic duty to even the score a bit for the next generation and have at least as many girls." His eye caught Gregor's, inadvertently it seemed, and he smiled, suddenly and inexplicably gentle. "I think we'll manage all right. Gregor will be a wonderful father." Gregor, who had his own doubts on that score that Miles was entirely aware of, looked away.

They retired to the drawing room, and though Gregor had seen no one giving orders, the alcohol flowed in abundance. Miles and the Csuriks drank maple mead straight, but the rest of them, having not shorted out all sanity with "that drain cleaner," as Ivan put it, stuck to wine.

"Should he be drinking?" Ivan muttered, passing Gregor in the hall.

Gregor shrugged. "Ghale didn't say anything. And if he wants . . ."

Ivan looked down. "Yeah," he said. "If he wants. Excuse me." The next time Gregor saw him, he was refilling his own glass to the brim.

Gregor retired briefly to the secure comconsole in the library for the requisite check-in with Allegre. All was quiet, relatively speaking, and he returned to find Miles in high form, keeping even his mother's eyebrows up with a succession of progressively more outrageous stories. Gregor paused in the doorway, watching and listening, trying, again, to slow the day, to experience each individual moment as a crystallized snapshot, a pattern of sensations and emotions that he could call up again at a future date and re-experience with perfect clarity. But the moments streamed by him, too fast, far too fast, and the elusive draw of Miles's presence could not be captured quite like that.

Miles looked up, caught his eye, raised his glass in a toast. Gregor returned it, throat tightening. _I want to press you between the pages of my memory, but it won't do me a bit of good. Gone is gone_.

He crossed the room and on impulse bent over Miles's chair, stealing a quick kiss. The burn of mead nearly pickled his mouth, but he didn't mind as he settled on the ottoman at Miles's feet.

He was waiting for it, and he was perhaps the first to notice. It was something straight out of a child's fairy story, the hero who set with the sun. As the pale winter light faded in the tall, west-facing windows, so did Miles. He grew quiet, then simply silent. Gregor was sitting close enough to see his shoulders begin to droop and the exhaustion take up residence once more in the lines of his face. Cordelia caught the exaggerated care with which he set down his empty glass, and her eyes narrowed. Ten minutes later, the party had been skillfully broken up, and the Csuriks were on their way. Miles walked them out, and Gregor did not catch the low-voiced exchange he shared with Harra as she hugged him goodbye. He did catch the look on Miles's face, though, as he turned away, and he sucked his breath between his teeth, dismayed and almost hurt. Miles had stepped right off the edge of his high spirits, and plunged straight on down to a state of black depression Gregor had been very glad to see only rarely in their time together. Miles had told him more than once that it was his presence that smoothed the rougher edges of his personality. Gregor was more inclined to attribute the change to increased age and a different lifestyle, but he had been unspeakably glad not to have to cope, and watch Miles cope, with the dizzying, exhilarating heights and desperate, terrifying lows that had defined Miles's adolescence. Gregor could hardly throw any stones on the subject, but, all things told, he would pass over even the most extravagant of Miles's good moods if it meant also avoiding their converse.

He watched Miles's back as he retreated, shadowed by Roic, into the depths of the house. Drawing Miles out of this mood was not always possible, and the prospect left Gregor feeling exhausted and ill-prepared, with his own internal footing so precarious. _I cannot but follow where you lead, but oh how I wish you wouldn't spend these days - last days - somewhere I don't think I can leave without you_.

*~*~*

He wound up in Gran'da's old study because that was where his legs started giving him trouble. He considered the huge, ancient desk for a moment, then gave it up and dropped onto the end of the divan. He'd spent many a cozy summer afternoon here, in the years after Gran'da had decided this was all the heir he was going to get. Miles fancied he could still catch the scent of riding leathers and centuries-old whiskey. His father had never done anything with this room after the old man died.

Roic moved to turn on the bank of overhead lights, but Miles waved him off. He pushed to his feet, feeling about twice as old as he had an hour ago, and crossed to pull back the dark drapes from the windows. This side of the house had no view of the lake, facing only a horizon to horizon expanse of rolling snow, lit blue and cold and stark in the rising moon. He stood there a moment, then made his laborious way back to the divan.

Comparison had been the bane of his life, a psychological trap he had spent a great deal of time evading, only to fall into it all over again. He had never been trapped into quite such devastating self-reflection, though. A month ago, he was fine. An hour ago he was full of energy, happy. Now, carrying the negligible weight of his own body was a burden, and he could feel his thoughts slowing, softening around the edges, becoming clumsy and vague. He dropped his head into his hands, shook it. All things considered, he would almost rather have not taken Ghale's concoction. It had perhaps been better not to know just what it was he had already lost.

Roic stirred, and Miles looked up. Gregor stood in the doorway, a shadow outlined against the dim hall, but Miles knew the shape of him anywhere. Of course. Gregor was bound and bloody determined to take every step of this journey with him, seeming confusedly worried as Miles's equanimity held. He wondered if he should point out that was about to change, but then Gregor could probably figure that for himself.

"Roic." Miles flicked his fingers to the door.

Roic didn't move. "I'm sorry, m'lord, but the Count-your-father said -"

"I'm well aware," Miles said. He repeated the gesture and lifted an eyebrow. Roic looked from him to Gregor, winced, muttered something about being right out in the hall if m'lord needed anything, and ducked out. Gregor waited for him to pass, then stepped in and drew the door closed behind him. He paused there a moment, a blank outline in the shadows, then crossed the room and sat beside Miles.

"What do you need from me?" he asked quietly, and Miles was struck with the sudden certainty that this question was the driving focus of Gregor's days now. He wondered what would happen if he turned the question back on him. It wouldn't be pretty, he was sure, and a wave of bone-deep weariness greeted the thought. One of his mother's old sayings floated to the surface of his mind. _What we need is to love each other without getting tired_. What were you supposed to do, he wondered, if you managed the loving fine, but you got tired anyway?

"When I told you I couldn't do both things at once," he said slowly, staring out into the snow, "you realize I meant most of the time. It doesn't include dark winter nights when I've been drinking and I feel like . . ."

"Like what?"

He looked up at Gregor, who was watching him with the devouring look he had begun wearing the moment the clock started ticking on them. For a moment, the words of the letter he had not been able to write tumbled through his brain, the fright and the anger and the frustration, the way it was impossible to win a battle when you couldn't even trust yourself to fight. There was something in his brain, taking it apart molecule by molecule, the nerve disrupter of his nightmares set on exquisite slow motion and fired at point blank range. His will had held against that for a surprisingly long time, when he thought about it, holding the inevitable at bay for over a week. But that had been slipping in recent days, and it was gone altogether tonight, collapsed with his legs out from under him. In its place lay the abyss, inching minutely closer with each breath. He was beginning to think, after gazing into it for a time, that being shot unexpectedly with a needle grenade was better. The fear thundered through him again - _what will happen when my mind is gone, what will I be when I don't even know myself_ \- and it carried away with it the clutter of words and thoughts he had not been able to release to paper. He had only one thing left, and it was really the point anyway.

"I don't want this to be it," he said into his hands. "I don't want to die like this. I don't want to die at all."

Gregor inhaled. "There is an antidote," he said carefully.

"There's probably an antidote," Miles corrected gently. "And maybe it was made on Jackson's Whole. And maybe Allegre's people can figure out by whom. And maybe they can get their hands on it. And maybe they can get it back here in time." He looked up and shrugged. "I'm not holding my breath," he said, starkly honest.

"Me either," Gregor said, and it had the flavor of confession about it. His fingers stole out, wrapped about Miles's wrist.

"Chances are," Miles said steadily, "chances are I'll be foresworn to you for the betrothal. And for . . . many other promises I've made you. I'll probably be dead by then, and if not, I'll be in no state to put up with old Vor tradition. I have trouble with that on my best days."

"I know," Gregor said. "I was trying . . . if you needed me to act like it wasn't going to happen . . ."

"I was doing it mostly for you," Miles said, and laughed a little. "Well," he added after a moment, "some for me, too."

Gregor stroked the inside of his wrist with tender fingers. "This thing," he said, his voice rough. "This thing doesn't need to be in me to drive me mad. It's doing it just fine right now. Miles, I don't know if I can do this."

"I think you can. There will be a great deal for you to do still, after." He hesitated, briefly considered spilling his secret then and there, explaining what he had done. He thought that they had always been truthful with each other before, but this was something new. His fear had left little in its wake, only the bare places in his soul, the things that rarely saw the light for the clutter of breeding and civilization. He could see the same nakedness in Gregor. _This is all I have left to offer you. It's hard and cold and it's not pretty, but I have to give you something so here it is_. Miles opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He would hold this one thing back, if only for now. He smiled, grimly satisfied all of a sudden. Even worn down to the bare bones by dying, even with so little left to hold onto, it seemed that he could still plan for the future, even if it wasn't his.

"There's nothing really stopping me from doing it," Gregor said. "From conceding to their demands, doing anything and everything they want."

"They probably wouldn't give it to you, anyway."

"Maybe not. But then again, maybe they would." Gregor's eyes, all whites in the moonlight, sparked with sudden, desperate fire.

"You can't," Miles said. "You know that."

"I would strip away my honor and throw it in the mud," Gregor said steadily. "I would let all of Barrayar dance on it, if they like."

"I've done dishonor," Miles said. "You'd think desperation would make it taste a little better when you choke it back up, but it doesn't."

"I don't care."

"I know. I . . . am almost glad I can't do much right now."

"Death or dishonor," Gregor said, leaning closer. "That's the old Vor way, isn't it? Which would you rather?"

"Dishonor, of course," Miles said, without hesitation. "You can survive dishonor. It may not seem like it for a while, but if you know how, you can get the stain out, eventually." He paused, shrugged. "Or maybe just change the interior décor on yourself so it blends in better. You can't survive death. At least I won't, not this time."

Gregor made a tiny, almost inaudible, wounded sound.

"Then again," Miles added, turning his hand to lock their grip, "there are stains that won't ever come out, and the things you'd have to do to yourself to be able to live with them . . ." He looked up, touched Gregor's cheek. "I fell in love with a man of honor. If you're looking for my permission to throw that away, you don't have it."

"So you choose death, then."

"Now that's hardly fair." He dropped his hand to his lap. "We both know what it's like to make that choice. I had Sergeant Bothari. You had -"

"You."

"Yeah. You did. And do. But you might not, much longer. And the fact that I won't see you dishonor yourself for me doesn't change that." He swallowed. "Let me do my duty by you, in this last thing, Sire."

Gregor's fingers clenched, relaxed. "It should have been me," he breathed.

"It wasn't. It's me instead." Miles lifted his chin. "That makes it okay a little. A very little, but it's something."

"That is what's driving me mad."

"I love you. That makes the duty greater, not less."

"How am I going to do it, after you're gone?"

Miles didn't have an answer to that one. He had very few answers for anything, nowadays. He leaned up, drew Gregor down. It was supposed to be a gentle kiss, but something happened in the moment of contact, something heavy and heated that flared between them and left Miles clinging to Gregor's shoulders as he was pushed flat on the divan. Gregor's mouth was hard on his, his hands grasping. Miles gasped, drew him closer, found his ear and breathed into it all the things he wanted Gregor to do to him. Gregor shook, cried out softly into the hollow of his throat.

"Not here," he said, struggling to sit up. Miles clung for a moment, then let him go. He did want it here, in this dark room that felt like everything old Barrayar to him, lit by only the stark chill of moonlight. _But even when you're dying, it still matters who sees you naked_. He laughed, shared this observation with Gregor, who laughed also.

"Come on," Gregor said, urging him to his feet.

For the time being, it didn't matter that his legs trembled beneath him, that Gregor had to support him up the stairs, that the hot flash of startling lust was barely winning through the exhaustion. _I don't have much left, and I want you to have all of it there is_.

*~*~*

Miles fell asleep immediately, leaving Gregor holding him in the dark. Gregor tried, for a moment, to take refuge in anger, to picture hunting down the ones who had done this to the far reaches of the Nexus. But he couldn't. The defenses he'd spent days marshaling were gone, stripped away by Miles's own bleak, loyal words in Piotr's study and their lovemaking, and he was left with nothing to hang on to, not even his anger. He had wanted to hold Miles's hand the entire way, he had wanted, at least, for them to do this one last thing together. But he was coming to realize that in many ways Miles was already far from him, and try as he might, Gregor couldn't follow, not if he were to go on as Miles wanted him to. As Barrayar needed him to.

He was not going to be able to sleep. He suddenly wanted to get extremely, improperly, dangerously drunk.

He dressed again and went out into the house, eerily silent after the noise of the party. He went down to the parlor, dark but for the moon, and dug a bottle of brandy out of the cabinet. He poured some over ice, gulped most of it down, and then poured himself some more before taking the bottle and going to sit on the same ottoman he had occupied earlier, when Miles had been holding court here. Gregor gulped brandy and felt, for the first time, a hot stinging in his eyes. His grip tightened on the neck of the bottle and the glass trembled in his other hand. He hunched in on himself, letting his head hang down.

After a time Gregor heard a footstep behind him, in the door he'd left open to the hall. "I think you've had enough," the Count's voice said coldly.

"Well, sir, I disagree," Gregor said, and splashed more into the glass, defiant in the face of Aral's disapproval. He stood shakily, turned around, and took a sip. Aral - the hypocrite - had a glass of his own, nearly full.

"Where's Miles?"

"Sleeping." He had enough rationality left not to throw just how he'd tired Miles out in the Count's face. He felt dangerous and destructive, and knew that whatever it was roiling in the space between him and Aral was about to explode.

The Count inhaled audibly through his teeth. "You see what he's like." Gregor didn't justify this with a reply. "Today, that was just the stimulants," the Count continued, stepping closer. "He can't do that all the time, and he'll pay for it tomorrow."

"I know." There was brandy all over his fingers, though Gregor couldn't remember spilling it.

"Do you see it now?" Aral asked, stopping a few feet away, forcing Gregor to meet and hold his gaze. "Four years ago, I _begged_ you - but you wouldn't listen, you were too selfish, and he was too loyal, and now look what's happening - "

"Aral."

"-to my _son_ -"

"Yes," said Gregor. "I see. Have no doubt of that." He looked away, and then down into his glass, which was nearly empty. "I would have done anything to prevent this -"

"Except give him up," the Count said bitterly. "You couldn't do that."

"I wish now that I had."

"Liar."

There came a long silence, while Aral breathed unevenly in the dark and Gregor said nothing. He could not refute Aral's accusations, not when they echoed his own thoughts.

"He could have been happy without you, you know," the Count said at last, his voice harsh and not a little despairing. "He could have lived a long and contented life with someone else, never knowing what you felt. You've seen the way he looks at her, the way she looks at him. They could have been happy together. But you couldn't keep your mouth shut, and now - now he won't get to live any life at all."

"I knew it," Gregor said, laughing a little. "I knew it. You've wished every day for the last four years -"

"Of course I have!" Aral snapped. "Every day, I have wished that you had the decency, or that he had the sense to - to stop all of this before it ever even started. I would change it all if I could, and your happiness would be a small price that I would willingly pay for Miles's life. Can you say the same?"

"I don't know," Gregor said bleakly. Probably, if presented with such foresight, they would have decided that there was some way to beat the odds together. What idealism they had possessed at that time, he thought. And not a little hubris, to think they could make it work. He poured the last few drops of the bottle into his glass and swallowed them in a gulp, feeling the slow burn down his throat.

"My wife is a more philosophical person than I," Aral said after a long, bitter stretch of silence. "She believes in a grand scheme of things, or at least a pattern. I don't. I think there are our choices and there are the consequences. Your choices led us here."

"Yes," Gregor said.

There was more silence, heavy and expectant. Gregor looked up and found Aral staring at him, eyes glittering with anger and grief and frustration. Gregor shook his head. "What do you want from me? I knew the risks. He and I both did, and we had the arrogance to think we could make it work anyway, and change Barrayar for the better at the same time." So ridiculous, that seemed now. "I was selfish and arrogant and now your son is dying."

Aral's teeth flashed whitely in a grim snarl. "I want to see you bleed," he said, and it was one of Barrayar's leashed, rabid dogs looking out of his eyes. "As he does. As his mother does."

Gregor's head snapped back. _I do. Every moment_. "At least with me, he had a choice," he said, blessed, eclipsing anger finally rising. "He didn't even have the chance to be born before he got hurt because of you. So you see, we're not so different, you and I. We both failed him."

Aral made a quick movement, and Gregor was certain for a moment that the Count would strike him. He almost welcomed it, tilting his head back and waiting for the hot flare of pain that would, for a time, blot out the other. But then Aral turned aside, changed the motion of his hand, and his glass exploded in the stone fireplace across the room. He turned on his heel, striding through the open door. There was a startled cry from the corridor, and Aral's voice said harshly, "Two months, girl. Why couldn't you have met him two months earlier?" He disappeared from sight, leaving Gregor staring into Ekaterin Vorsoisson's shocked, frightened eyes.

"I'm sorry, Sire," she managed, haltingly. "I . . . I didn't mean to overhear. I was packing to leave tomorrow and I left my coat . . ." She darted into the room and grabbed the coat that lay folded over the back of a chair. "I'll be going."

"It's all right," Gregor said. His head was swimming from the brandy and it no longer seemed to matter what he said to her. "He's right, you know. If you'd met Miles just a few months earlier, we'd all be better off."

She stared at him, coat clutched to her chest. Finally she shook her head. "No," she said quietly. "That isn't true. It should be you."

"He wouldn't be dying if it weren't for me."

"I - I can't say if that's true. And neither can you. Sire," she said, very carefully. "I think it might be best if you went to bed."

"Probably." He looked down into his glass. "Your husband died," he said suddenly.

"Yes, Sire," she said uncertainly.

"Miles said he was an ass and you were better off without him, but he was still your husband." He looked up, met her eyes. "How did you survive it?"

"I . . ." She cast about desperately, looking everywhere except at him. "One day at a time, Sire," she finally said. "One thing at a time, one moment at a time. You can't take it in all at once when your world changes like that, so you do it in small steps. And you survive because you have to."

"I don't know if I can. I did before, but that was before. This is now. You have a son, don't you? He and I will never have any children." His throat closed painfully over the last word.

"Maybe not," she said. "And maybe you will. You don't know. There's still time."

"Not much. I thought we had so much more. It's not fair."

"No," she sighed. "I'll agree with you on that. It isn't fair." She shook her head and said firmly, in a tone that triggered some old, obedient reflex in his brain, "Sire, it's time for bed."

"I suppose it is," Gregor said. He finished the rest of his drink, to her visible dismay, and took two staggering steps that brought him even with her. She paced him uncertainly, hands hovering, then grabbed his arm to keep him from knocking into her, and held it to steer him carefully out the door.

"I believe," he said, as she propelled him firmly down the hallway with a hand at his elbow, "that I am _very_ drunk."

She sighed. "I believe so, yes."

"Aral is right," he said blearily as they negotiated the long stairs.

"With all due respect to the Count," she said carefully, "I don't think he is. I think you're both in a great deal of pain, to say the least, and are taking it out on each other."

"Maybe." He wanted to believe that. They were in front of the bedroom door, he noticed suddenly. How had he gotten here? Oh dear, he was _very_ drunk. He was as drunk as that night he'd fallen off the balcony on Komarr. He couldn't run away this time, though. He had to stay with Miles. But soon Miles would leave him alone here on this crazy planet and he hated being left alone. Everyone always left him. Miles never had before, but soon he would.

"Hell," he whispered, and shut his eyes. He had the feeling that he was on the verge of falling over.

"Sire?" Madame Vorsoisson's voice sounded far away, and worried. Was Miles all right? No, he remembered as the edges of the world sharpened around him again. He wasn't all right at all.

Gregor opened his eyes and it was as though he were coming out of a dream. He was propped up against the doorjamb, and that and Madame Vorsoisson's grip on his arm were the only things holding him up. He felt uncomfortably warm, except for his cheeks, which were cool from the tears drying on them. A sudden wave of humiliation swept over him, and he straightened, stepping out of her grasp.

"Thank you, Madame Vorsoisson," he said with as much dignity as he could muster. "I'm fine now."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

He paused, half in and half out of the bedroom. "No. Good night."

He quietly shut the door in her face.


	12. Chapter 12

Ekaterin awoke the next morning with a throbbing headache and the momentarily inexplicable urge to never get out of bed again. A few seconds spent recalling the previous night quickly explained both the headache and the queasy sense of dread. She lay in bed for a while, aware that she should get up and gather her things to leave. The light coming through the window indicated that they were already getting a late start. But the very last thing she wanted to do was face the Emperor. With whom, dear God, she was supposed to share an aircar today on the way back to Vorbarr Sultana. Without Ivan, who would be staying here 'for the duration,' as he had put it.

She groaned and shoved her pillow over her head, thinking of what was sure to be a long, silent, exceedingly uncomfortable ride, and made a quick inventory of everything she had to do in Vorbarr Sultana over the next few days. She was between semesters and gardening projects at the moment. Nikki could get to school on his own, and he looked after himself well enough these days. Her aunt and uncle wouldn't mind if she stayed over until tomorrow. Besides, she'd had no real opportunity to spend any time with Miles at all, and he was the reason she'd come in the first place.

The feeling of great relief that came with the idea of staying one or two extra days convinced her. She got up, washed her face, and dressed in the clothes that she had set out to travel in. She wound her hair up into a plain knot and went in search of painkillers, tea, and breakfast, in that order.

She found all three in the beautiful, glassed-in porch. Ivan and the Countess (no matter what she said, Ekaterin simply could not bring herself to think of her as Cordelia) sat with one of Ma Kosti's famous breakfast spreads between them. They murmured their good mornings as she took her seat and reached for the steaming teapot. Ivan wordlessly shook two painkillers out of a container set unobtrusively on the edge of the table and handed them to her. She took them with an embarrassed smile.

"I think everyone will need some of those this morning," the Countess murmured. She herself was bright-eyed and alert. Ekaterin couldn't remember seeing her drink anything other than tea the night before.

"Where is everyone?" Ekaterin asked carefully. It was even later than she'd thought; if things had run on schedule, she and the Emperor would have been halfway back to Vorbarr Sultana by now.

Cordelia pursed her lips and passed Ekaterin the bowl of groats. "They are . . . enjoying their hangovers without comment. From us, anyway."

"Is Miles all right?" Ekaterin asked, alarmed. How would the poison, the drug he'd taken to get through yesterday, and the alcohol have interacted? No one had said anything the night before . . .

"Relatively speaking," the Countess said. "Pym reports that Gregor was actually worse off, which is why he hasn't left yet. As for my husband," she added with a sigh, "I highly doubt that we'll see him until Gregor is gone. He's sulking." She cast Ekaterin a piercing look. "I understand you caught an unfortunate glimpse of him and Gregor at their worst last night."

"I really didn't mean to intrude," Ekaterin said, now thoroughly embarrassed. "I went back for my coat and -"

"Witnessed Aral making an ass of himself?" the Countess finished wryly. "You certainly aren't the first."

"Wait," Ivan said, a bit plaintively. "What happened?"

"Well, I haven't spoken to Gregor," the Countess said, "but what I got out of Aral was that they were both extremely drunk and extremely . . . upset. And they said some things to each other, none of which they would have said otherwise, but all of which I think they meant." She frowned. "They will apologize eventually, for Miles's sake if nothing else, but now is not the time."

"Ouch." Ivan winced. "And you get to ride back with him today," he added to Ekaterin, though his usual good cheer seemed rather forced. "My advice is to say nothing. And keep an airsick bag handy."

"Thank you, Ivan," the Countess said firmly.

"Actually," Ekaterin said tentatively, "about that. I was wondering if it would be a terrible imposition if I stayed for another day or two. I don't feel like I really got a chance to see Miles. I could take a commercial shuttle back tomorrow."

"Nonsense," the Countess said. "Pym or one of the other Armsmen can take you back in Miles's lightflyer."

"Oh, you really don't have to do that," she said quickly. "Taking a shuttle's no trouble."

"Neither is having Pym drive you." The Countess took a long sip of her tea, signaling an end to the discussion. Ekaterin smiled, murmured her thanks, and, feeling the painkillers kick in, took her first real bite of groats.

Nearly forty-five minutes later, the Emperor finally emerged. He waved them all to stay seated before they had the chance to move, and accepted his painkillers and tea in silence. Ekaterin hid her wince behind her cup. Perhaps it was his black hair that made him look so pale, but she didn't think it could account for the pastiness of his skin, nor the shadows beneath his bloodshot eyes.

"Have some water, too," the Countess told him. "How is Miles?"

"Sleeping again," the Emperor replied. He did as she had instructed him, and then checked his chrono. "I should be going."

"Eat something first, Gregor."

He glanced quickly at the food and winced, an unconscious hand stealing to his stomach. "No, thank you."

"You've got a two hour aircar flight ahead of you. You will regret it if you don't eat."

"I think I'll regret it more if I do. I'll take my chances. Madame Vorsoisson," he said, without looking at her, "are you ready? I'd like to leave immediately."

"Actually, Sire," she replied, "I've decided to stay another night."

She expected - something. Relief, perhaps. Instead there was only a slight tightening of his mouth. It belatedly occurred to her that, as much as he might wish it, he himself could not stay another day or two. _Oh dear_.

The Countess walked him out. As soon as they had gone, Ivan let out a low whistle. "You could have cut that tension with a knife," he remarked. "What happened last night?"

Ekaterin shook her head. "I really shouldn't say."

Ivan sat up. "He didn't . . . I hope he didn't say anything that he, er, shouldn't have said. Gregor, I mean."

"Oh he did," she sighed, "but not in the way you're thinking. He wasn't insulting. Quite the opposite, really. But the last thing either of us needed was two hours of each other's company today."

"Ah," he said, and sat back, gazing out the glass towards the lake. "I'm sorry," he said after a long moment. "When I invited you, I didn't think that you would get dragged into the middle of all these family . . . issues. I didn't know there _were_ family issues. I have no idea when things became strained between Gregor and Uncle Aral."

"About four years ago," the Countess said, startling them both. She kicked idly at her skirts as she stepped into the room. "The day Miles and Gregor gave him the news. Aral thought he was hiding it well." She remained standing, staring distractedly out the glass for a long time, and then turned back to them, shaking her head. "Excuse me. I should let Aral know it's safe to come out now and see that Miles eats something. Is there anything that either of you need?"

"Could I use a comconsole?" Ekaterin asked. "I need to call my aunt and uncle and let them know I'll be gone longer than expected."

"Of course. Ivan can show you to the one in the study."

No one was home at her aunt and uncle's, so she left a message with the code for the lake house. Then she sat in a comfortable armchair, leafing idly through an antique book of native Barrayaran plants with lovely illustrations while Ivan checked his messages.

"Hmm," he said.

"What?" she asked distractedly.

"Nothing. Just . . . nothing." She twisted her head around and raised an eyebrow at him. "Nothing that won't keep, anyway." He shut the comconsole down. "Let's go bother my cousin, shall we?"

"Um," she said uncertainly. "Do you think that's wise?"

"Probably not. But it's what we're here for." He hesitated, very uncharacteristically. "I suppose you've never seen Miles in one of his moods."

"Not really," she said. "I wasn't even aware that he had moods. He always seemed very up, to me."

"Oh, you haven't really seen him up either," he assured her. "He was frighteningly manic-depressive in his twenties, during his covert ops days. He settled down once he got involved with Gregor, though whether that was an effect or part of the cause, I couldn't tell you. But back when he was in ImpSec, he was . . . scary. Never knew whether it was going to be up or down, and whichever direction he went, you could be sure that everyone around him would follow."

"I . . . see," Ekaterin said, though she really didn't.

"Well, last night was as close as I've ever seen him to the way he was back then. Did you see?" She nodded. It had been difficult to miss, the way that he had slowed and slumped, and then, at the very last, seemed to crumble into himself. "It used to be like that all the time."

She blinked. "He must have been very difficult to live with."

"Yeah, well, so was I. You think I'm an ass now - you should have seen me at eighteen." He grinned. She smiled back tentatively, wondering if he remembered her advice even dimly. He'd not been an ass to her at all on this trip - well, except for the part where he'd forgotten to tell anyone she was coming. "Anyway," he said. "I just wanted to warn you."

He stood up and extended his hand to her. She stared at it for a moment, and looked at him with just the slightest bit of reproach. He dropped it with an embarrassed smile and gestured instead. "After you, Madam," he said with exaggerated courtesy.

She did not realize until they were nearly at their destination just where they were going. "Lord Ivan," she whispered, "we're not really going to - to barge into his bedroom, are we?"

"Of course!" he said. "How else are we going to get the little bugger out of bed? Aunt Cordelia is wonderful," he added, "but she believes in letting people do things in their own time. In this case, his own time might be never unless we force him - with a nice ice water bath, if necessary." The glint in his eye was alarming.

They fetched up in Miles's sitting room. Ivan rapped four times hard on the bedroom door before pushing it open. "Good morning," he said with great cheer that Ekaterin almost believed. "Or good afternoon, I should say. It's a lovely day out, though rather chilly. And it's past time for you to be up."

The small lump under the bedcovers barely stirred. Miles turned his head to one side enough to say clearly, "Go. Away."

"Do I need to get the ice water?"

"Goddammit, Ivan, I fucking mean it."

"Wallowing," Ivan said distinctly, stepping closer to the bed, "is extremely unattractive."

"I don't bloody care. And I swear, if I see you go anywhere near that pitcher, I will break your arm. _Both_ arms, to be safe."

"Well, you are in a foul temper this morning, aren't you?" Ivan said. He crossed his arms and stared down at his cousin. Ekaterin hung back and resisted the urge to bite her nails.

"I'm allowed to be. Now get out."

"No," Ivan said flatly. The false cheer was gone, replaced by determination that Ekaterin recognized easily. Probably it ran in the family. "Look, coz, you are not going to spend today in bed. Or tomorrow, or the day after that, either. If - and I stress 'if' - nothing works out, you'll have plenty of time to lay about then, but there's no use in hurrying that up. Now, I can carry you bodily, but Ekaterin is here and that might embarrass you in front of her."

"What?" Miles said. He turned over onto his back and blinked up at them - at her, Ekaterin realized. "What are you still doing here? I thought you went back this morning with Gregor."

"Change of plans," she said, trying to smile.

"Ah." He looked up at the ceiling. "Probably for the best."

"In any case," Ivan continued, "I suggest that you get up, get dressed, and eat some of that breakfast your mother brought you. Where is she, anyway?"

"She left. Said something about getting my father to remove his head from his ass." Miles groaned. "He and Gregor had a fight last night, didn't they?"

"Yeah," Ivan said, "though I only heard about it this morning. You should ask Ekaterin, she was there."

Miles sat up suddenly to see her better. He winced and pressed a hand to his forehead, but said, "Were you really?" She nodded. He read the expression on her face and made a distressed noise. "I'm sorry," he said. "I never wanted you to . . . I'm sorry." He looked around and then down at himself. "I'm sorry about all of this," he muttered.

"Enough," Ivan said immediately. He grabbed Miles under the arms - but gently, Ekaterin could tell - and lifted him off the bed. Miles let out an indignant squawk and struggled as Ivan carried him into the bathroom. "Shower. Dress. Breakfast. Now." Ivan closed the door to the bathroom and sat down on a chair just outside to wait.

"Too bad you're an officer, you'd have made a good sergeant!" Miles called through the door, but a few seconds later they heard the shower running.

"See?" Ivan said. "You just have to pound his head every once in awhile."

Miles emerged pink and clean from the shower a few minutes later, wearing old fatigue pants and a shirt that was too big for him. Ivan made him sit down at the table over by the window and told him he couldn't get up until he'd eaten at least half his breakfast.

"Forget sergeant," Miles muttered rebelliously. "Try _mother_. Fine, fine," he added at Ivan's look. "But I want to talk to Ekaterin. Alone."

Ivan crossed his arms over his chest and glared suspiciously. "This isn't some ploy to get me to leave so you can hide your groats in your napkin?"

"No," Miles said. "Now get out."

"All right. I'm going. Make sure he eats," he added to Ekaterin on his way out. "Don't let him steamroll you. You're bigger than he is, remember that."

Miles spent a few seconds glaring at the door after it closed. "Thank God," he finally said, turning back to Ekaterin. "You can always tell family by the ease with which they get under your skin. One of us may not survive this, it's true, but I can't say it will necessarily be me."

"He's glad to be here," Ekaterin said, mildly horrified.

Miles grumbled something low in his throat. "How did you end up coming along, anyway?" He swallowed both painkillers dry and chased them with a sip of black coffee. "I mean, it's wonderful to see you and all, but I can't see Gregor inviting you, and Ivan . . . well, he's Ivan."

"It was Ivan, actually," she said. "He was . . . pathetic. I found it endearing."

Miles raised an eyebrow. "All right, if you say so." He took another sip of coffee and sighed. Some of the pain lines visibly eased. He took a small bite of his groats and chewed thoughtfully for a minute. "I was going to try and be subtle about this," he said, after he swallowed. "But I don't really have the energy. I need you to tell me what happened last night. I thought I heard your voice out in the hallway, right before Gregor stumbled in from - well, presumably from his blow up with my father. But I thought I must be hearing things."

"Yes, that was me." She shook her head. "I went back for my coat, because I'd left it in the parlor after going for a walk while you were gone. And your father and the Emperor were in there."

"Arguing?"

"Yes." She bit her lip. "They were shouting about - about, um, you. Well, your father was shouting. The Emperor . . ."

"Doesn't need to shout," Miles finished grimly. "What were they saying?"

Here she hesitated, unwilling to divulge anything that might shame either of them.

"I need to know," Miles said quietly, when she didn't answer. "I don't want things to be bad between them when - if I die. Gregor will need my parents very badly, and my father might not realize it, but he'll need Gregor, too. My mother knows all this, but I don't think she can fix it. Not like I can."

Ekaterin sighed, nodded. "Your father told the Emperor that he was selfish for having told you he loved you four years ago," she said. She closed her eyes, trying to recall the exact words as she recounted the snatch of conversation for him. Their snarled exchanges sounded strange in her soft alto.

"Well," Miles sighed when she was done. "Well." He looked away for a long moment and then looked back. "Did Gregor talk to you at all? Or did you just drag him upstairs for me? Thank you, by the way. I realize he can be a handful when he's drunk."

"He wasn't a handful. He was just . . . sad."

"Exactly." Miles grimaced, and looked for a moment as though he were remembering something very unpleasant. "I'm sorry you had to see all that," he finally said.

"Oh, it wasn't -"

"Yes, it was. Believe me - the famous Vorkosigan rages are famous for a reason, and Gregor . . . well." He swiped a hand across his face. "Thank you for being honest with me. I needed to know." He smiled, an expression of such sudden, fey amusement that Ekaterin took in a quick breath. "The nice thing about dying is that people tend to listen to you more. Funny thing - you'd think your opinion would weigh less and less, as the end gets closer, but it's exactly the opposite. Is there supposed to be some sort of celestial spillover of wisdom, I wonder?"

Ekaterin sat very still. She didn't want to disturb these musings, as maudlin as they were.

"In any case," Miles continued, "they will do what pleases me. And it pleases me that they not continue to take out their pain on each other. Very messy, and quite a waste - pain has so many other uses, don't you agree?"

"Yes," she said truthfully. So many personal economies of frugality had defined her life, she had not dared leave even the pain to waste itself, at the end.

"My mother has a lot of old Betan expressions," Miles said, smiling fondly. "Most of them are quite useful, but there are one or two I have quibbles with. She tossed one off once, when I'd asked something about the Pretendership and that great mess around the time I was born. 'What doesn't kill you,' she said, 'can only make you stronger.'" He looked up at her, and lifted an eyebrow.

"I've heard that one before," Ekaterin said. She reached unobtrusively and added a few spoonfuls of groats to his bowl. He was getting so very thin . . .

"Hmm. I thought you might. Betan it may be, but it also smacks a little of old Vor." He grinned. "Then again, the old Vor way of thought often ends on 'what kills you' and just leaves it at that." He paused, nibbling contemplatively.

"We're better now," Ekaterin said carefully.

"Mmm," he said, noncommittally. "Perhaps." He swallowed, drank half his cup of coffee in a few gulps. "But something about it just doesn't sit right with me. I think maybe you'll understand - we aren't passive, content to be tossed into the fire and just lie there. At least not most of us. There's nothing guaranteed about strength. It may come quietly sometimes, without notice even, but there is always an effort." That smile again, the edge of dark humor softened now. "Of course, in that case, the moment you realize how strong you've become is also the moment the exhaustion hits."

"Oh," said Ekaterin, nodding. "I . . . yes."

"You see it, then?" he asked, leaning closer to her with earnest intensity. "It's not really true at all. Something that nearly flattens us has just as much chance of leaving us nearly flattened as forcing us back to our feet. It's the forcing that's the key, really."

"I understand," Ekaterin said. She would have said it even if it hadn't been true, for it seemed very important to him. "You have to try. Make use of . . . of being flattened."

"Exactly." He nodded, and she smiled back helplessly, in the face of having pleased him. "And it is so very useful, being flattened. If you know how to make that sort of sustained effort." He fell suddenly silent, and Ekaterin waited, a little worriedly, for whatever he might come out with next. "Gregor will need everything he has," he said at last. "I am . . . linchpin and fulcrum, all at once. Not wise, but what can you do?" He shrugged, laughed a little. "He loves like a monsoon - the moment you realize it's upon you is also the moment you know you're drowning."

"I have trouble seeing that," Ekaterin admitted. She wondered if he would consider this drawing out of half unwilling honesty another amusing symptom of dying. She was more inclined to call it a symptom of him.

He smiled, unperturbed. "I suppose so. But I do, all too easily." He pushed his bowl away, half-eaten.

Ekaterin floundered, then fastened to the one thing she had been so resolutely clinging to. "There might be an antidote," she said, wondering suddenly, horribly, if he could have forgotten this.

"I know," he said, and shrugged again. "Maybe. But I . . . I find myself in desperate need of careful, strategic planning. The hardest sort, you know - you have to lay all your pieces out, set each one in motion, calculate every contingency, hope each reaches its assigned place at its assigned time. And then you have to let them go and step back. It's something I'm told I have a talent for." He looked up, and he was suddenly, for perhaps the first time in the conversation, entirely serious. "We'll find out now, won't we? If there was ever a time when I needed to plan. Life or, heh, death, as it were. What do you do when you're all out of options?"

She thought this was rhetorical for a moment, but the extended pause prompted an answer. "You . . . make more," she said hesitantly.

"Precisely." He rewarded her with that quick, flashing grin. "I have found myself with no options. I refused to see it that way for a while, but that proved . . . unhelpful. There are phases to dying, did you know? Just like grieving - incredibly like, now that I think of it. I am progressing apace, I think."

Ekaterin swallowed, watching as he finished his coffee.

"I am sorry," he said, blinking himself back to the present and setting the mug down. "You've come all this way to keep me company and I talk your ear off. I am so glad to see you, though -- whose idea was it that you come down?"

Ekaterin had perhaps never been so glad to see someone as she was the Countess, who swept in just then. She hurried to her feet, mumbled something inarticulate at Miles, then his mother, and escaped out into the hall. She leaned a moment against the wall opposite his door, heart pounding inexplicably. She felt wrung out, body and mind weary. What in all that, she wondered, listening to the low, indistinguishable murmur of their voices behind the door, had been chemical madness? What was the result of that hell poison eating his brain, and what a more secondary symptom, an effect of a slowly approaching death, the bending of a mind like matter in the gravity well of a black hole as it was slowly sucked in. Or did she simply not have the key to this particular sort of sense - Miles could be incredibly elliptical, when the mood took him.

She straightened, let out a breath. _Ivan_, she thought, and pushed off the wall. Ivan would make things . . . well, not better, for that was not in his power. Nor normal, not really, though he could make it seem so for a few minutes. Bearable, she decided. He would make it bearable.

*~*~*

Ivan stood outside his cousin's door for a few moments after Miles had kicked him out, listening for . . . what? Screams? Shattering glass? Finally he forced himself to walk away. Ekaterin had been friends with Miles for years now. She must have a certain flair for handling him, or their friendship would not have endured.

His feet took him back to the study and its comconsole. He stared at it for a moment, and then started it up. It was an older model - the equipment at the lake did not get as many upgrades as the equipment in Vorkosigan House - and it took a few minutes, leaving Ivan plenty of time to chew over this latest in a long string of problems. Byerly Vorrutyer's face had been the last thing Ivan had expected (or wanted) to see when he'd decided to check his messages. He hadn't seen By since the night of Miles's birthday party, and then all of a sudden, there he was, asking Ivan to return his call as soon as possible. It was Byerly Vorrutyer - Ivan figured he was guaranteed a headache at the very least, with the looming possibility of much, much worse.

It took By a ridiculously long time to answer his comconsole. Ivan considered the idea that perhaps By had gone out for the day, but in the end decided that he must still be asleep, and let it ring. When By finally answered, he was indeed sleep-mussed and bleary. "Good morning, By," Ivan said. "I'm sorry, did I get you out of bed?"

By scowled at him. "Some of us were out at Claude Drade's birthday party until dawn. Do you know what time it is?"

Ivan shook his head; it wasn't like the city municipals would break up a party thrown by the son of the Minister for Civil Defense, no matter how loud it got. That crowd was a bit wild, even for him -- _especially_ for him, in the past four years. He made a show of checking his chrono. "In Vorbarr Sultana? The ungodly hour of 1100." By opened his mouth to retort. "You said as soon as possible," Ivan pointed out reasonably, cutting him off. "Here I am. What do you want?"

"I did say that, didn't I?" Byerly said reluctantly. "Fine then." His eyes narrowed suddenly. "Wait a minute. That's not your code. And you said 'in Vorbarr Sultana.' Where are you?" He paused, frowned. "Vorkosigan Surleau?"

"Brilliant deduction. Now tell me what you want."

"I'm wounded," By said. "I don't want anything at all. Quite the contrary, in fact, I have something for you."

A pain began throbbing behind Ivan's right eye. "What is it?"

Byerly's mouth thinned. "It's sensitive."

"Sensitive?" Ivan repeated skeptically.

"Mm," By said. "How's your cousin? Still under the weather?"

"He's getting better," Ivan lied smoothly.

"That's not what I hear."

"Byerly, do not play games with me right now."

Gratifyingly, By dropped the coy expression. At least _someone_ took Ivan seriously. "When are you returning to Vorbarr Sultana?"

"I actually hadn't planned to," Ivan said. "I'm on personal leave for the . . . duration."

"I see," Byerly said. He paused. "I'm very sorry, Ivan." The sympathy in his voice and eyes seemed sincere, but it rankled all the same.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ivan said, more snappishly than he had intended.

"Of course you don't."

Ivan bit his lip, thinking about Miles and how much he really did not want to leave him right now. Considering the fact that a Vorkosigan lightflyer would be taking Ekaterin back tomorrow. And wondering what would be important enough for By to call him at home. The only other time that had happened, it had been worth his notice, that was for sure. Dammit. "All right," he said. "I can be in the city tomorrow. But I won't be staying long."

"That's fine. This won't take long."

"This had better be worth it."

"It will be. I promise." By cut the com.

Ivan stared contemplatively at the blank comconsole screen until Ekaterin appeared, looking pale and strung-out after her time with Miles. For once she seemed to actually want to talk to him, and Ivan obliged her with a few minutes of normal, pleasant (he hoped) conversation, until the color returned to her face. She was lovely, Ivan thought with a regretful sigh, and intelligent and interesting, in a way that Felice Vormuir and her ilk really weren't. Too bad he had made an ass of himself so early on - but that was the way things went, wasn't it? The smart ones always saw straight through the bullshit to what _wasn't_ on the other side. It just hadn't been a problem for him before, since "smart" had never really been high on his list of attributes to look for in a woman.

A horrible thought occurred to Ivan as he watched Ekaterin settle on the couch with a handviewer and a thick stack of flimsies.

Perhaps it really was time to grow up.

*~*~*

The next day made Ivan yearn for his simple routine in Vorbarr Sultana. Their lives were measured by Miles's sleep patterns, which visibly eroded his time with each passing day. When Miles was awake they were with him constantly, and though it was a strain to see him so ill - almost wasted - it was downright pleasant compared to the times he was asleep. No one bothered to hide anything then, even in Ekaterin's presence. Aunt Cordelia looked old in a way Ivan had never seen before; after all, she wasn't even seventy yet - barely middle-aged for a Betan. The Count made himself scarce much of the time, and Ivan didn't want to put a name to the silence between them.

Ivan had never seen the two of them argue; he knew they must, all couples did at some point, but he'd never caught even a glimmer of discord in Aunt Cordelia and Uncle Aral's marriage. It was rather like Miles and Gregor, Ivan reflected. They were so stable, of one mind on so many things, that to see them argue shook one's world just a little. They weren't obvious about it, but Ivan could feel the tension in the air between them, especially whenever Gregor's name cropped up, which was quite often. He knew Miles noticed it too, though they did their best to hide it from him, and was disturbed by it. But it was between the two of them, as Miles told Ivan rather wearily.

"I can't do anything for the two of them," he said. "They have to do it themselves and they know that. They'll survive, whatever happens. That's the one thing I'm certain of."

Ivan couldn't bring himself to question Miles's certainty.

The morning he and Ekaterin left was clear and very cold. Ivan went in to get Miles up, which seemed to have become his job, and found him awake already, a cup of black coffee in one hand and a sealed envelope on his lap. The envelope bore the Vorkosigan coat of arms stamped in a dried, rust brown smear.

"Give this to Gregor for me, please," Miles said.

"Sure," Ivan said, pocketing the envelope. He went into the closet to find a clean pair of slacks and a shirt for Miles. "Is there anything else you want me to do?" he asked when he emerged.

Miles gave him a smile touched with the dark humor he seemed to be favoring these days. "You're offering to be my pack mule," he said. "I really must be dying."

Ivan dropped his eyes to the shirt, trying futilely to smooth a stubborn wrinkle. "I wish you wouldn't say things like that."

"Sorry," Miles said contritely. He looked ashamed for a moment, and didn't speak until he'd shrugged the shirt on and cuffed the sleeves. "There was something," he finally said. "I'm trying to remember . . ." He touched a hand to his forehead, and picked up a flimsy from his bedside table. "Oh, good, I wrote it down. Sometimes I even forget to do that. Please stop by your mother's office. She probably has a stack of things for the betrothal ceremony that have been piling up."

Ivan gave a long-suffering sigh. "Are you sure I couldn't do something else for you? Slice off my thumbs or shoot myself in the foot with a plasma arc, maybe?"

Miles shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. "And you might suggest to your mother that she and Simon come visit. I'd like to see them."

"Fine, fine." Ivan handed Miles his shoes. "I should be back tonight."

"I'll probably be asleep by the time you get in." Only long practice allowed Ivan to detect the frustration in this seemingly casual remark. He didn't reply.

Breakfast was a short affair, much to Ivan's relief. If he never had to sit through another Vorkosigan family meal, it would be too soon. Except he would have to do just that tomorrow, and the next day, and the one after that until this was all over, one way or another. He said good-bye to Cordelia, who kissed both him and Ekaterin on the cheek, and Aral, who did not respond beyond an absent nod.

They finally made their escape and were in the lightflyer with Pym. There was a visible release of tension as they left the long lake behind, though none of them remarked on it. Even Pym was looking worn around the edges, Ivan thought.

"Looking forward to a day in the city?" he asked Pym brightly.

The Armsman's simple, "Yes, Lord Ivan" said all Ivan needed to know.

They dropped Ekaterin off first. Ivan walked her up to her front porch. They looked at each other, both at a loss for words, and finally Ivan shrugged and said helplessly, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was fine."

"It was awful."

"I didn't expect a holiday," she said, a bit reproachfully.

"I know." Ivan ducked his head. "Would you like to do it again?" She puffed out a breath of laughter. "For Miles's sake, I mean. And for my sanity." He looked at her intently, trying to make her believe that he wasn't being charming or glib or flippant, or just a straight up ass.

Perhaps she did believe it, because she replied, "Maybe. I still have a few more weeks of break."

He nodded, and decided to take that as his cue to exit. He slid into the front seat of the aircar next to Pym, suddenly feeling quite energized. Perhaps it was that the air was crisper here in the capital, though it was no colder; the air at the lake had been damper, and the whole place was muffled, smothered in snow and the shadow of imminent death.

"Your apartment, Lord Ivan?" Pym asked.

"No," Ivan said, deciding he might as well get the most unpleasant part of his trip over with first. "The Residence, please. I have to deliver a letter and see my mother." Or perhaps he could make his mother deliver the letter. Now _there_ was an idea.

Ivan had not called ahead for a very good reason: if his mother didn't know he was coming, she couldn't have work ready to give him. But he also hadn't thought through the fright he might give her, showing up when he should have been at Vorkosigan Surleau.

"Ivan! What are you doing here? Is everything all right?" she asked the moment he stepped into her office. He closed the door on the curious gazes of her three secretaries. "Is Miles -"

"Don't worry, Mother," he said, feeling a bit guilty. He dropped into one of the antique armchairs that faced her desk. "I'm here on an errand for him, actually. He sent me to pick up anything related to the betrothal ceremony that might be piling up in his absence."

"Oh," she said. "Yes, there's quite a bit. Gregor has been managing most of it, but if Miles wants to help, he certainly may." She frowned. "Do you think he's up to it? My last message from Cordelia . . . did not give me that impression."

"I think it's more that he wants something to do." Ivan hesitated. "I wouldn't give him anything too, um, vital."

"I see," she said gravely.

"He also said he'd like to see you and Simon. I know you're busy, but -"

"Of course," she said instantly. "Of course."

"I think Aunt Cordelia could use the company as well," Ivan said. "And Uncle Aral."

"I see," his mother said again, and he thought that she really did. "I'll have to check with Simon, but we'll be up at the earliest opportunity."

Ivan nodded, hesitating and putting off the second half of his errand for just a few more minutes. "Have you seen Gregor since he got back?"

"Yes," his mother said, putting aside the file she'd been looking through. "Yesterday morning."

"How does he look?"

She sighed. "He looks like Gregor always does. This betrothal business is very difficult for him, you know," she added. "I'm not sure Miles realizes that. We're planning an event that, in all likelihood, is not going to happen and Gregor knows it."

"So does Miles."

"I'm sure he does. I'm just not certain . . . I think it might be best for everyone if we were more realistic about this."

"It's important to Miles," Ivan replied. "What he said was that no matter how it comes out, there had better be a pretty big party."

"Ah," his mother said. She swallowed, suddenly looking a little bright-eyed. "That makes . . . a bit more sense."

"Yeah," Ivan sighed. He stood up. "I need to see Gregor before I go."

His mother stood as well, and surprised him by coming around the desk to give him a rare hug. He surprised himself by returning it. He and his mother were so often at odds -had been for years - that they never had time for the affection that seemed to exist so easily between Miles and Aunt Cordelia. Ivan had never really missed it, until this very moment when it was so unexpectedly received.

They stepped back, both slightly embarrassed. "Stop by on your way out and I should have something for Miles," his mother said.

"Right," Ivan said, and ducked out of the office.

Gregor's secretary informed Ivan that the Emperor was in a meeting, but he would have a fifteen minute block of time in about half an hour. Ivan nodded, and sat down to wait. He glanced around without much interest; in the past four years, he'd come through this office more often than in the previous thirty combined, though usually he wasn't kept cooling his heels in the waiting area. Now, though, it gave him a very uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. He didn't care what Miles said, Gregor's job was not one he could do. You had to train your entire life for something like that - or else be born with a natural genius for the thing. It wasn't something that should be handed to just any ass who happened to be standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. And yet, if Miles died . . .

Ivan stood up abruptly, and paced back and forth across the thick, sound-muffling carpet, ignoring the disapproving stare of Gregor's secretary. After a moment, panic subsiding, he sat down and crossed his legs, determined to wait calmly for Gregor without thoughts of what horrible events might transpire if the Imperium were to be forced into his hands.

Thirty-five minutes later, Gregor finally appeared. He looked healthier than he had the last time Ivan had seen him, but that wasn't saying much. Miles wasn't the only person losing weight these days, Ivan noticed.

"Ivan," he said evenly. "Is everything all right?" Ivan had no trouble interpreting that as, _Are you here to tell me something horrible?_ Ivan felt a pang of regret again for having - rather selfishly - not called ahead to let them know he was on his way.

"Everything's fine," he assured Gregor, making sure to keep his voice just as even and casual. "I'm just Miles's errand boy today."

Some of the tension eased from Gregor's shoulders. "I see," he said. "Come in."

"I have this for you," Ivan said, digging the envelope out of his back pocket. He remained standing, not wanting to prolong this any more than necessary. "From Miles, of course."

Gregor took it, silently studied it for a long moment. "Thank you," he said at last, setting it aside. "Is there anything else?"

"Um . . ." Ivan said, wondering if he should say anything about his next errand. Byerly had implied . . . No, he finally decided. No use in getting Gregor's hopes up if it all came to nothing, which was the most likely possibility, all things considered. "No, I don't think so. Miles wanted me to deliver that and pick up something from my mother for him to work on - betrothal business, I mean."

"Ah." Gregor's face gave nothing away. Ivan had never quite gotten the knack of reading Gregor's moods the way Miles had, even before they were 'them'.

Ivan hesitated. "Have you . . . have you heard anything more about the antidote?"

"No," Gregor said shortly. "You will hear what I do."

"Oh." Another short pause. "I'll be going, then." Ivan stood up.

"Ivan?" Gregor's voice broke in plaintively when Ivan was nearly to the door. He turned and found Gregor looking at him, still composed - but something had changed, and Ivan could see the tiny, almost invisible cracks in the fade. "Tell him . . . that I will be up again as soon as possible."

Ivan nodded. "Do you know when that might be?"

"No," Gregor sighed. "Soon, I hope. Thank you," he added, gesturing with the letter.

Ivan nodded, almost a shallow bow, and left. He found himself eager to escape the Residence as he ducked into his mother's office to retrieve the small pile of work she'd put together for Miles and - dammit - a much larger pile that she'd put together for him as Miles's Second.

"But -" he protested.

She cut him off ruthlessly. "You've got plenty of time up there, Ivan, I'm sure."

"Right," he muttered. "Keeping everyone from killing each other, that's my job. I'll be ready for a diplomatic post on Eta Ceta if I get through this."

"It can't be that bad, surely," his mother said, managing to look both worried and amused at the same time. "I mean, the Vorkosigans have always been . . . well, not stable, but unified. I have trouble imagining that would change now, of all times."

Ivan shook his head, feeling as though he had to be candid with someone or he might explode. "It's been . . . tense. And I think it's only likely to get worse. You and Simon need to get up there soon to give me a breath of sanity."

"We'll do our best," his mother assured him. "Consider your work for me a distraction. Oh," she added hastily as he turned to go, "tell Miles that the event in Hassadar went splendidly."

Ivan nodded, and decided that if anyone were going to tell her about the events _after_ Hassadar, it wouldn't be him. Aunt Cordelia would probably clue her in at some point.

He checked his chrono on the way out to the lightflyer. He'd sent Byerly a message that morning, asking him to come by his neglected flat at 1700, and it looked like he would just make it. Too bad; he wouldn't have minded keeping By waiting for just a few minutes.

"Would you like me to wait here, my lord?" Pym asked when they landed in the parking lot outside Ivan's building.

Ivan hesitated. Pym could be a bland, even invisible, witness to the conversation. He had the advantage of knowing everything - or almost everything - that went on in the Vorkosigan household. And, perhaps most advantageous of all, he was former ImpSec, and thus very used to parsing information and figuring out how all the different pieces fit together. Ivan did not have much confidence in his ability to do that effectively; usually he dumped that on Miles's head.

"Lord Ivan?" Pym prompted after an extended pause.

"Um, no, actually. Come up with me, if you don't mind."

Pym nodded and followed Ivan past the ImpSec guards and up the stairs to his flat. He let himself in and looked around with a faint sense of disorientation. Everything was just as he'd left it, but it wasn't . . . right. Not in the sense that someone had been there, but in a sense that felt like his clothes were suddenly, inexplicably too small. Ivan wasn't sure how he had changed in the past few days, but he felt, as he walked into his apartment, that his old life did not fit very well anymore. He might be able to slip into it again, but it would not be comfortable as it had always been before.

_The next time I walk in here like this, he might be dead_.

He and Miles had never been roommates; Miles had rarely come to the apartment. There was no reason for Ivan to be overcome by the sudden melancholy awareness _here_, of all places, that Miles's death would leave a huge, aching hole in his life. That it would . . . change the shape of it, in the obvious ways, but also in smaller, subtler ones that Ivan would not and could not expect until they were upon him. There was no reason for that to occur to him in his own flat, when it hadn't at Vorkosigan Surleau. But there it was, a taste of what it would be like in a few weeks, if God or Fate or the agents on Jackson's Whole did not intervene. And it _hurt_.

"Lord Ivan?" Pym said politely.

"Sorry," Ivan said, and moved out of the way so Pym could get through the doorway. He stared around again for a few seconds, waiting for the strange tightness in his chest to ease. He glanced at Pym, who was so good at blending into the background, and noticed for the first time the deepened lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes. "How are you doing it?"

"Doing what?" Pym asked.

Ivan waved for him to sit on the couch, and then sat across from him. He rubbed a hand over his face, tried to organize his thoughts, and said, "How can you serve them, at a time like this? I mean, you've known Miles for years and you have to . . . you have to watch this. It can't be easy."

"It's not," Pym sighed, and Ivan caught a brief glimpse of the pain hiding beneath the ever-calm surface. "It's the hardest thing they've ever asked of me. Probably the hardest thing that any of us will ever have to do. But to not serve them wouldn't be just dishonorable, but unthinkable."

"I understand that," Ivan said slowly. "But how do you . . . be there and not be there? I feel sometimes as if I shouldn't be present. As if I'm just a spectator, intruding on something intensely private. A voyeur, almost."

Pym nodded, but looked faintly puzzled. "You are not their family retainer," he said. "You are not bound by the same oaths that I am."

"No," Ivan said. "But . . . it's sort of the same thing, isn't it? We're both there to take care of Miles, and by extension Aunt Cordelia and Uncle Aral, and Gregor, when he's there. But there's a limit to how much we can . . . I don't know how to describe it."

"Participate," Pym supplied. "That is an old dilemma for Armsmen. There is a limit to how much we can participate in the lives of our liege lords. It's a very complex relationship."

"Right. I feel like I can't - or shouldn't - participate in this. Or maybe it's just that I don't want to."

"You would stand on his wedding circle, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, of course. But that's different. This is . . . private."

"It is," Pym agreed. "So private that none of us can really participate with him, not even the Emperor. But there is a difference between being a spectator and being a witness. The difference is, witnesses don't just stand by and watch. They can help, sometimes just by watching. And I think that we do help him. Why else do you think that dying alone has always been one of the most dreaded fates?"

Ivan gnawed his lip. "I hadn't thought of it that way." He nodded abruptly, feeling as if something - though he couldn't put his finger on what - suddenly made sense. "Thank you," he said quietly. "I -" The buzzer, signaling someone's arrival at the front door downstairs, suddenly sounded loudly in the quiet flat, making them both jump. Pym's hand went automatically to his stunner. Ivan cleared his throat. "That would be Byerly." He sighed and touched the button next to the speaker. "Yes?" he said.

"Hello, Ivan," By's voice said dryly. "Let me up, will you? Your gate dogs are giving me the willies."

"Yeah, yeah." Ivan hit the buzzer. Pym rose without a word and positioned himself against the wall behind the sofa.

Byerly looked more subdued than was his norm, Ivan thought, dressed today in a deep blue tunic and black slacks. There were ruffles around the cuffs though, Ivan noted, which somewhat spoiled what would have been a somber - almost professional - affect. By himself seemed pale and even a bit grave, but that could just as well be a hangover. Ivan could attest that it often amounted to the same thing. Ivan offered him the chair that Pym had vacated and he took it, sitting with his legs crossed at the knee.

"Okay, Byerly," Ivan said with a sigh. "I came all the way up from Vorkosigan Surleau for this, so spill it."

Byerly opened one hand palm-out, in an _as you wish_ gesture. "First of all, I think that you should let the Vorkosigans know that Miles's . . . illness is not as hushed up as they might like."

"It wasn't supposed to be," Ivan said. "Old combat injury, aggravated by the stabbing."

"Sure," said Byerly. "If you want. It's just a funny thing to kill a man, is all."

Ivan did his best to look annoyed - it wasn't difficult. "Where did you hear that horseshit?"

"It's not common knowledge," Byerly said in a reassuring tone. "There's been some talk, certainly; it's odd that he's dropped so completely off the public radar. But it's not as if the papers have it."

"He hasn't fallen off the public radar," Ivan objected. "What do you think that circus in Hassadar was?"

"Not enough," By said. "If he were well, or even close to it, he'd be here in Vorbarr Sultana. I'm telling you this as a courtesy, Ivan. I like your cousin. I consider him a role model, of sorts." Ivan shuddered convulsively. "But that isn't what I called you about."

"What, then?" asked Ivan, relieved.

"You, Ivan." Byerly sat forward. "You're the Imperial Heir."

"Thanks for the reminder," Ivan said, perhaps a bit too snottily. He suddenly had an awful feeling about where this was going.

By didn't blink; Ivan really hated it when he put on his serious face. "You've been lucky these past four years. Do you realize that? You haven't been targeted with anything more serious than connubial scheming. Considering the historical precedents, you've been extraordinarily lucky, as imperial heirs go."

Ivan hadn't considered it that way. When he thought about his heir status, _luck_ was not what sprang immediately to mind. "Get to the point, By."

"Your luck may be about to change. I've been hearing things, vague things, and they involve . . . ushering you into the Imperium, so to speak."

Ivan choked, controlling the urge to put his head between his knees. "What? That's crazy. I could never do Gregor's job -"

"Exactly. You're considered easy to manipulate in a way that the Emperor isn't. And the Emperor and Lord Vorkosigan together . . . there are certain groups who are very afraid of what the two of them could accomplish. So . . . they figure to stop that before it ever begins."

"Who are 'they'?" Ivan demanded.

"If I knew that," said Byerly, "I'd be having an entirely different conversation with someone a lot higher up the food chain than you. This is just a personal favor."

And a fishing expedition, no doubt. Ivan pressed a hand over his eyes. This was _exactly_ why he was constitutionally unsuited to be a spy - the whole enterprise just made him want to drink heavily. "Hold on," he said, dropping his hand. "This plan had to have been in place long before Miles and Gregor announced their betrothal."

Byerly nodded. "I first got an inkling over a year ago."

"And ImpSec hasn't stomped on it? I find that hard to believe. I think you might be blowing smoke out your ass, By."

Byerly shrugged. "Have it your way. I'm just telling you to be careful."

"Great," said Ivan. "Noted. Anything else?"

"Not really," said By. "I'll keep my ear to the ground, see what I can dig up." His foot was jiggling convulsively. "I just wanted to make sure that if I disappear, one person in the world won't assume I'm sleeping it off in a gutter somewhere."

A cold chill raced down Ivan's spine. "Wait a second," he said sharply. "You haven't reported this, have you?"

"No," Byerly said. "This is off the clock. For now, anyway."

"Why?" Ivan demanded. "You seem to be risking an awful lot for very little reward. That's . . . uncharacteristic."

Byerly didn't deny it. Instead he shrugged and said, "I'm getting older, and even I have ambitions, you know. My charm and stunning good looks will only last so long, and it's about time I prove I have greater use to my masters. And as I said, I like your cousin. He makes life in Vorbarr Sultana interesting."

"You're out for a promotion?" Ivan said skeptically. _A promotion worth dying for_? He had the sudden, awful feeling that By had been saying a great deal more than his mere words might suggest, and that Ivan had managed to miss it all. What was going on here?

"That, too," said By. He paused, eyes sliding off into the distance. "And . . . let's just say that I have a certain amount of empathy for Emperor Gregor. I know what it's like to watch someone you care a great deal about deteriorate before your eyes and be unable to do a damn thing to stop it."

"Er," said Ivan, taken aback. Byerly's eyes snapped back to him, and that obnoxiously laconic grin reappeared. Ivan blinked, struck by sudden insight, clear as a bell. _So sometimes what they say is really true, after all_.

Byerly stood. Ivan followed him to the door. "I'm sorry about Miles," By said, his hand hovering over the release panel.

Ivan dipped his chin, acknowledging but confirming nothing. "And I'm sorry," he hesitated briefly, "about Gaerard Vormoncrief. I didn't know him all that well, but he seemed a decent fellow, the few times I met him."

Byerley took a quick breath, the habitually ironic lines of his expression faltering as he turned away. "Yes, he was. I'll be in touch."


	13. Chapter 13

Several days after Ivan's trip to the capital, the isolation of Vorkosigan Surleau was punctured. It was a benevolent invasion, consisting of Ivan's mother and Simon, Kou and Drou, and Delia and Duv. Besides a faint note of consternation about the fact that all his friends and relatives seemed to be traveling in sets of two these days, Ivan didn't know quite what to think about it. On one hand he was profoundly relieved; the bubble in which he, his cousin, and Miles's parents had been living seemed to be . . . constricting. But on the other hand, he wasn't sure how good all this activity would be for Miles. But it wasn't as if anyone had consulted him on the topic, anyway.

Ivan dutifully met everyone in the main foyer with Uncle Aral and Aunt Cordelia. After the flurry of coats and greetings, the guests were ushered into the parlor, where a fire was burning constantly these days. There were promises of lunch and, Ivan hoped, wine.

Ivan found himself beside Galeni, who had yielded Delia to her parents for the moment. "Hello, Duv," Ivan said. "You look well."

"Thank you," Duv replied. "You look . . . tired." Ivan gave a listless shrug. "How is Miles?"

"Not well," Ivan said shortly. "I'm sure you know the prognosis."

"Yes, of course." Galeni hesitated. "But I rather meant at this particular moment."

"Right now he's still sleeping. He does that a lot, if you can believe it." Ivan rubbed the bridge of his nose. "He's . . . decidedly strange. Stranger." Ivan chewed his lip; there hadn't been anyone to whom he could confide his impressions in quite a while. "This is just not something he ever prepared for," he said. "This sort of slow deterioration was never in the cards for him, and it's . . . changing him."

"I see," Galeni said gravely.

Pym appeared at Ivan's elbow. He nodded his greeting to Galeni, and then, at the Countess's request, bore Ivan off to the task of waking Miles.

"Do you know how they're going to do this?" Ivan asked Pym. "I mean, he can't see everyone at once."

"No, Lord Ivan. The Countess said one or two at a time on the sunporch, in whatever order m'lord pleases."

Ivan nodded, as satisfied as he could be under the circumstances. At Miles's door, Pym stepped back and let Ivan take the lead. He entered without knocking, and crossed the dark, quiet room to the bed. He stood for a moment, looking down at Miles, who lay in an unnaturally deep sleep. Waking him was becoming very difficult, and Ivan had begun to dread the task more and more. Not because Miles was combative or belligerent; that would have been comforting. But a far more disturbing, general submissiveness had gradually crept over Miles in the last few days, especially since his last seizure. It had been prolonged and intense and had left Miles severely disoriented and barely able to hold his head up for a good six hours. It seemed to take something vital out of him even after the hangover had passed. Now some part of Ivan always wondered, when he went in to wake Miles, if this was the day he'd find him cold and still.

_Not yet_, he thought, looking down at his cousin. _Not today_.

Ivan shook Miles's shoulder, and he stirred, reluctantly. "Go 'way," he mumbled.

"Sorry," Ivan said, "but it's time to get up."

Miles sighed. He struggled to sit up, looked around blearily at the afternoon light coming through the windows. "What time is it?" he asked.

"Just after noon."

"Why did you let me sleep so long?" Usually Ivan went in to wake him around 0900. But last night they had decided to let Miles sleep longer, so that by noon, when the guests were scheduled to arrive, he would not be exhausted again. It had been Miles's idea.

"You have some visitors. Do you remember?" Miles looked at him blankly. "Illyan and my mother, Galeni, Delia, the Koudelkas."

"Oh," Miles said. "Did we . . . talk about this?"

"Last night, before you went to bed. You talked with your mother and Ma Kosti about the menu for lunch today."

"Ah," Miles said, in such a way that Ivan knew he didn't recall any of this.

He stepped back so that Pym could hand Miles his first cup of black coffee. A few sips later, Miles seemed somewhat more alert. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. "I'd like to see Duv and Simon first, please. Together."

"Are you sure that's -" The look on Miles's face stopped Ivan from finishing the sentence. Instead, he nodded, and stood back as Pym helped Miles dress. He was moving much more slowly and stiffly, though he hid it well when he deemed it necessary. He was hiding a lot from the Count and Countess, Ivan had noticed. He thought that he and Pym were perhaps the only ones who knew how things really stood. It was touching, and also a frightening responsibility. One of many. Speaking of which . . . "Your parents have asked me to stay with you at all times today, by the way." He braced himself.

"Surely that's not necessary with Simon and Duv," Miles said, mildly and with definite weariness.

"Just as a precaution. I don't think you're going to win this argument this time around."

"I don't see how they still think I might be a danger to anyone," Miles said. He was finally dressed in a fine white shirt, black trousers, and shining half-boots. He levered himself up and added, "Standing and walking are hard enough."

Pym accompanied Miles to the sunporch, while Ivan went to collect Illyan and Galeni. He found the entire group in the dining room, just sitting down to a formidable Ma Kosti lunch. Ivan trusted that a similar spread had been set up on the sunporch as well. He caught Galeni's eye, and then Illyan's, and gestured to them. They excused themselves quickly and fell into step.

Ivan paused outside the door to the sunporch, the warm, sunny room with the view of the long lake where Miles spent most of his waking hours now. And some of his sleeping ones, too. "Just a minute," he said, ducking in.

Miles was staring out the glass again. He did that often, contemplating the winter landscape. It sometimes preceded a long, drawn out, disassociated ramble, so Ivan interrupted to forestall it. "Illyan and Galeni are here. Are you up to seeing them?"

"Yes," Miles said, tearing his gaze away. "I think so."

Ivan turned back and let them in. Miles smiled, extending his hand to each without attempting to rise. But then his forehead wrinkled, and he rubbed at it absently with his thumb. "There was something . . . God, my brain is just . . . nothing is there anymore."

"Like a man with perfect vision who suddenly has a helmet covered in grease shoved over his head?" Illyan said as he grasped Miles's hand and then took his seat.

"Yes," Miles sighed, meeting his gaze. "That's it exactly."

Ivan decided it was too late to blend into the background, so he dropped onto the couch next to Miles's chair. Plus, a smaller version of the lunch laid out in the dining room was on the table before them, and Ivan was surprised to find that he was hungry.

"I'm sorry we couldn't make it up sooner," Illyan said. "But with the betrothal date so near, Alys has been incredibly busy."

"And the trade summit," Galeni put in on a sigh.

"It's okay, I understand. Everyone is busy. I would be too, if I weren't . . . well. I'm glad you could make it up. How long will you be staying?"

"A few days," Galeni said. Illyan nodded agreement.

"Is Gregor coming up, too?" Miles asked, looking at Ivan with such painful hope, it made Ivan's throat unexpectedly tight. He momentarily avoided answering by setting Miles's plate in front of him and pointedly handing him his fork. Miles set it down again absently, and Ivan sighed to himself. Ma Kosti, now as painfully aware as everyone else in the house that something was terribly wrong with her lord, had been trying everything she could think of to make him eat more, but most of her valiant efforts had been wasted, especially since no one else had much of an appetite either.

"No," Ivan said finally, because Miles was still looking at him. "Some things have come up, and he can't get away again so soon. Perhaps next week."

"Oh." Miles fell silent and picked at his salad. "I had something . . ." He frowned. "I needed to talk to you two about something."

Ivan frowned. "Your parents said no shop talk."

"This is important. And I don't know if I'll get a shot at Allegre or not." Miles turned back to Galeni and Illyan, who had been watching this exchange with slightly stunned expressions. "If I die, which seems . . . fairly probable, all things considered -"

"There could be an antidote," Galeni said quickly.

Miles sighed. "Yes, but even if our people on Jackson's Whole can confirm its existence, the retrieval could go wrong or time could run out or . . . or a lot of other things could happen, but hell if I can think of them right now. If I wait, something will go horribly wrong, and I'll be left with a mess and I'll be too far gone by then to do anything about it. I have to do this now, for Gregor and for . . ." He swallowed. "Anyway, if it doesn't get here, then Gregor will need . . . a lot of things, most of which no one will be able to give him. But he'll be vulnerable, open to attack, and he might not care much. So someone will have to care for him." His gaze grew a bit abstracted. "He always said I didn't care enough, that I didn't think about my own safety enough . . . probably true. Too late now."

"Miles," Ivan said, aware that they were skirting the edge of one of Miles's monologues, which were making less and less sense every day.

"Yes." Miles blinked, refocused. "I wanted to make sure . . . I know you're retired, Simon, and it's not necessarily your place, Duv, but I trust both of you to keep him from doing something . . . foolish. My parents won't be able to, they'll be . . . they won't be able to. He's . . . I'm worried that he'll be alone, and I don't want him to be."

"Miles," Galeni said softly, "I'm not sure what you're asking us to do."

"Protect him," Miles said, sounding more certain of himself. "Protect him from everyone who would take advantage of him. And protect him from himself, because . . . because he gets lost in his head just like everyone else does, he gets lost in those dark places in the middle of the night and I won't be there anymore. I want to be there, but I won't be, and that hurts more than anything, because no one else knows - no one else realizes, because he's so damn good at hiding it from everyone, but don't - don't let him. Watch his back, make sure he's safe, and . . . and be his friend. That might be the hardest thing, but . . . he'll need it. Even if he doesn't think he does." Miles swallowed. "Promise me," he said. "Before I forget that I asked you," he added with a short-lived laugh.

"I promise," Galeni said, "of course. As much as I can."

"And I," Illyan said. He looked deeply shaken. "I promise."

"Ah," said Miles, and let his head fall briefly into his hands, braced on the table. Illyan watched him, an awful, aching compassion twisting at his face.

Finally Miles raised his head, eyes dull, and looked to Ivan. "My head hurts," he murmured.

That was his cue. "I'll bring you a painkiller," Ivan said, and stood, herding Illyan and Galeni out in front of him.

"Better make it two," Miles replied, sinking back into the chair.

"God," Galeni said, as soon as they were out and the door was shut firmly behind them. "I mean, I've seen him manic and depressed and schizoid, but I never . . ."

"I'd thought maybe I could . . . offer some form of comfort," Illyan said quietly. "Or at least empathy. But . . ."

"I don't think that's possible at this point," Ivan said. "I . . . I've been trying, for days, but I don't think he's thinking like we are anymore."

"In any case," Galeni said, "I need a drink."

"Quite," said Illyan.

"Yeah," Ivan said. "I need to get him the painkillers, but I think I might join you."

By the time Ivan returned, Miles had gone pale from his headache. Ivan left him in the capable hands of his parents and Kou and Drou. He needed a break. And he thought that, though making a bit of a dent in the Vorkosigans' wine cellar with Illyan and Galeni might not be productive in the long run, it would make him feel rather numb, which would be a nice change.

The afternoon blurred into a wine-soaked haze. Ivan managed to pull himself together enough to seem reasonably presentable for dinner, though he still earned a series of withering looks from his mother. Miles attended briefly, and then retired, and the party carried on in hushed, strained tones, the polite sham of comfortable leisure wearing thin.

That night, Ivan couldn't sleep. That wasn't very unusual these days, but it was annoying because he was probably more exhausted than he'd ever been in his life. He prowled the house quietly, making stops in both the bathroom and the kitchen, before realizing that there was light coming from under the study door, which was ajar. Ivan approached carefully, easing the door open, and found the Count sitting at the comconsole.

". . . I might not be well enough to tell you this by the time you get here," Miles's voice was saying. His pale face filled the screen. "But I wanted to talk to you about your duties as my heir." He took a deep breath. "You have none. And - I want to make this clear - this is not because I don't think you could do it, but because I think that you would hate it. You would do it out of obligation, out of gratitude, and out of guilt." Miles paused, took another breath, and visibly forced himself to focus. "Do what you want to do, Mark. Don't try to claim any life that is not your own. Your life is on Beta Colony, or wherever you choose. With Kareen." Another pause, a hard swallow. "I wish you the utmost happiness. It's been a pleasure, being your brother. I wish I could stand next to you on your wedding circle, when you and Kareen finally stop dithering, and" - a flash of a smile - "and maybe I'll get to. But in case I don't, I wanted you to know. Good-bye."

The image vanished. Ivan realized his throat was tight. It must have been recorded this afternoon, while Ivan was getting drunk with Galeni and Illyan, during a bright spot after one of Miles's naps.

"Mark won't get here in time," the Count said suddenly. Ivan started, and the Count turned in the chair to face him. "It took too much time for our message to get to him, and he couldn't just leave. He has obligations there . . . he's on his way now, but . . ."

"Yeah," Ivan said. "What - what will you do? About, erm, your heir, I mean."

The Count shook his head. "I don't know," he said, rather bleakly. "I simply don't know." And didn't much care, not at the moment, Ivan judged. The Count stood heavily, turned the comconsole off, and walked past Ivan without another word. Ivan watched him go until he turned a corner and disappeared. He didn't seem to be heading for the suite he shared with the Countess.

*~*~*

Gregor had never wanted to shut down the entirety of Barrayaran government more in his life.

He snuck a covert glance down at his chrono and controlled a wince. Ten more minutes to make sure he had allotted just as much time to this reception as the previous two. Someone, somewhere, was doubtlessly keeping track.

The formal event suite in the central administration building of Vorbarr Sultana University was lovely and spacious, with an airy, botanical theme. Gregor, seated in a comfortable conversation circle across from the President of the University, who was adroitly but earnestly making his bid for the recently vacated Minister of Education position, had repeatedly found himself fantasizing about drowning everyone within arm's reach in the decorative fountain at his back.

He ground his teeth and wondered what would happen if he simply fired the Council of Ministers en masse. How dare they? Now, of all times, how dare they do this to him?

He reined himself in with a moderate effort. Furious he might be, but he wasn't the only victim here, nor an innocent one. It had been a series of small but apparently crucial political blunders over the past year, by Racozy and Gregor himself, that had prompted the resignation of four ministerial positions at once the previous morning. Gregor, who had been making plans to leave for Vorkosigan Surleau the next day, had nearly reinstated legal dueling just for the pleasure of carving out each of their spleens personally. He wouldn't be going anywhere for quite awhile.

There was a whisper of movement at his shoulder, and Gregor glanced up.

"Sire."

He sought momentarily for the young man's name, and came up only with the vague feeling that he was related to one of the ministerial hopefuls currently underfoot. He inclined his head in greeting.

"I was looking for your fianc " the young man said. "I admire him so, and wanted to meet him. Is he here?"

"No," Gregor said, wondering what rock the fellow could possibly have been living under. "He's convalescing at his family's estate."

"Oh." The boy blinked once, lashes flickering. "What a shame. You must be very lonely without him."

"I manage," Gregor said coolly.

"I'm sure." He smiled a funny, sideways smile. "Do let me know if there's anything I can do to . . . help you manage, Sire."

Gregor murmured something noncommittal, and flickered another look at his chrono. To hell with it. He was pretty sure the president wouldn't be making the cut, anyway.

He made a practiced circuit of the room, bidding goodnight to those who would be mortally offended without a word from him. At the moment, with public confidence flagging and a shake-up rumbling underfoot, it was a long list. Minister Van suggested they assemble a very quiet quorum as soon as possible, Racozy suggested they not convene at all until the dust had settled, Dono Vorrutyer wanted a status report on Miles, and Count Vormoncrief wanted him to meet someone.

"My nephew, Jacques," he said, pushing a young, barely pubescent boy forward. Vormoncrief's mouth was set in a hard line, and he was pale against the mourning blacks he still wore, over a year after his son's death.

"A pleasure," Gregor said, following the stilted bow with a handshake. Allegre had supplied him with a brief summary several months ago when enough time had passed for succession to be openly speculated. A second cousin rather than a nephew, and not a Vormoncrief by name, either. That had to burn, but Gregor suspected that everything did for Vormoncrief these days.

_That will be you someday, too_.

It took some doing to extract himself. At last, however, he was on his way out, Vortala at his heels. Henri Vorvolk, minus his wife this evening, fell in step with him in the foyer, a bemused expression on his face.

"I see Otari set his eldest on you," Henri said in a low voice. "Wonder what Vorkosigan will have to say about that, eh?"

"Hmm?" said Gregor distractedly. People who didn't know had taken to dropping Miles's name into conversation with startling frequency. Henri, for reasons Gregor had not really articulated, was still one of those people.

"The blond fellow who cornered you just before you decided to leave. He's Otari's son, didn't you know? I assume you've struck Otari from the short list."

"Er," said Gregor, who was beginning to get the feeling that he was missing a layer of this conversation. That didn't often happen with Henri. They emerged into the frosty night air, and Gregor drew his jacket closer around his shoulders.

"He flirts like a thirteen-year-old girl," Henri said blithely. "Sort of makes you wonder just what flavor of sacrifice he's supposed to be for the advancement of the old man, doesn't it?"

Gregor stopped dead in his tracks. Henri took two more steps, then turned back, frowning. "Gregor?"

_He was propositioning me. That little - of all the nerve - if Miles were here_ \--

"Yes," he said quietly. "Otari is off the short list." He'd become so accustomed to the peace of the past four years, the relative absence of . . . that sort of thing, that he'd missed it entirely. Fidelity would never be difficult for him, he thought wryly, when the only come-ons he even registered came from a cheerfully maniacal dwarf with an astounding range of tactics from the sweetly romantic to the downright filthy. _You won't be able to keep that faith, after he's gone. You'll have a duty not to, in fact_.

He should have recognized it, now of all times, with Miles's absence leaving them in a most precarious position . . . though now that he thought of it there had been more than one man with a particular look in his eye, at least since the news of androgenesis had begun spreading. _Great. All it did was double the circling sharks_.

"So, the talks went well, at least," Henri said, rocking a little on his heels. Gregor didn't know what expression had been showing on his face, but Henri looked more than a little spooked.

"Yes," said Gregor, as evenly as possible.

"Vorkosigan must have been pleased," Henri said.

"Yes," Gregor said again. Miles had been, Gregor thought, even if he had forgotten the weeks of work they'd put in over the summer. Their daily conversations were getting shorter and shorter, and Gregor was pretty sure the increasing silences were an attempt to cover the confusion lurking behind Miles's eyes.

"Well," Henri said, crossing his arms over his chest. He paused, obviously at a loss, and Gregor felt momentarily guilty. _He's your bloody Second, and a good friend. You should just tell him and get it over with_. "Is there something wrong?" Henri asked.

It was so simply put, so unlike the hundreds of circuitous and inventive salvos he'd suffered in the past week, that it caught him entirely off guard. Gregor stared at him a moment, before becoming suddenly aware of the freezing bite to the air, and the subdued murmur of the small crowd which had bottlenecked on the portico behind him, politely waiting for him to finish his business and move along.

"Come with me," Gregor said.

Henri did, waving away his own car and sliding in next to Gregor.

"He isn't backing out, is he?" Henri asked, the moment the canopy descended over them. "Because if he is -"

"No," Gregor said. "Well, not like you're thinking, anyway." He clasped his hands between his knees and stared down at them. "In a sense, though, he is leaving me." He told the story in a few short, succinct sentences. Amazing how four years of intricate, painstaking work could be undone in just a handful of words.

Henri listened, lips parted in dismay. "Oh my," he said, and Gregor, suppressing a humorless laugh, was reminded why he hadn't spoken to Henri earlier. Good friend he might be, reliable and thoughtful and very much integral to the daily running of the Imperium, but he was not really a man of crisis. "How long is it now?" Henri asked.

"A little over a week before it's irreversible," Gregor said. "It's not exact. There's no single moment we can predict when it'll be over. Well, there is, but that will come a bit later."

Henri blinked slowly. "What are you going to do?" he asked quietly.

"What I've been doing. Talking to him. Trying to make sure he's happy and comfortable. Nothing, when it comes down to it."

Henri shifted uncomfortably. "No. I meant, er. If . . . after . . ."

"Oh." Gregor shook his head. "I can't - today is almost enough to cripple me. Tomorrow will come far too soon. I don't have anything left for the day after that or the day after that, let alone - no."

"Oh." Henri sounded dubious, and Gregor smiled just a little. This was, after all, a man whose personal religion consisted almost entirely of the long-range five and ten year economic forecasts. The future moved ahead of Henri, uniformly measured in its expansiveness. _I had that for a little while. Not anymore_.

"And he'll be staying down at Vorkosigan Surleau?" Henri asked. "I see the necessity now, of course - you do know what it looks like to everyone, don't you?"

"Oh yes," Gregor said wearily. It looked like Miles was calling off the betrothal. It looked like he was up to no good. It looked like they were hiding something.

"It must be very difficult for you, to have to stay here," Henri said slowly.

"You'd think I wouldn't want to watch," Gregor said, rubbing absently at his eyes. "You'd think seeing him . . . fall apart would be the last thing I'd want." He dropped his hand. "But the truth is, there's nowhere I'd rather be right now."

"There will have to be an announcement of some sort," Henri said abruptly, as if he couldn't stop himself. "When it's clear that there's nothing - I mean if there's no warning -"

"I know," Gregor said tiredly. "In a week and a half we can start thinking about it. For now . . ."

"And after, you'll be expected to, well, you know." Henri waved expressively. "I mean, there is Ivan Vorpatril, but -"

"I know."

"And you know there are other people. Other men if you, er." Henri coughed uncomfortably, making a slight face. "I mean, they won't be Vorkosigan - who could be? - but -"

"I know."

"And you'll have your mourning year," Henri added. "You can have some time. A little peace."

Gregor blinked. "I . . . hadn't thought of that," he said.

"It can be more, too, you know," Henri said, spurred on by an actual response. "Hell, Vlad took five years for Lady Vorlightly, if I remember correctly."

"Oh," said Gregor. He felt like a cornered rabbit, offered up the safety of a tiny, dark hole to crawl into. _Go away and leave me alone_. He would have something for himself, at least, when it was over, if aloneness could be called that.

"Of course," Henri added thoughtfully, "Dorca was already in his teens by then . . ."

They swung through the front Residence gates, and Gregor escaped the car with some relief. _This is why you didn't tell Henri. He's not particularly fond of Miles, and he's more painfully sensible than ten men_.

"Thank you," he said, leaning back into the groundcar. "Rousseau can drive you home."

Henri, in the act of following him out of the car, sank obediently back into his seat. "Good night, Sire."

Gregor briefly contemplated his office and the eternal draw of work. He'd been spending more and more of his nighttime hours there lately, to the point of a gently concerned rebuke from his personal secretary. Tonight, however, he went straight up to his apartments, bypassing the study and comconsole. He readied for bed mechanically, clearing his rooms of butler and valet and Armsmen before retreating to his bedroom. He breathed in the quiet, let it do what it could to soothe the frayed edges of his composure, and then, when that didn't work, found the cat, whom the Armsmen did not dare disturb, sleeping in a sweater left crumpled on the floor. Gregor rubbed beneath the silky jaw, feeling the purr swell against his fingertips. _So. It is possible to retreat while you're under siege. I didn't know that before_.

He retrieved the letter from his bedside table before turning off the overhead lights and positioning a single dim reading lamp over the pillows. There were no windows, for paranoid security reasons, so the darkness was otherwise complete. He settled into bed, propped up against the headboard. Negri stalked across the blankets and shoved his head under Gregor's hand for a scratch before settling down.

Gregor smoothed the sheets of old fashioned paper across his lap. He always wrote to Miles on real stationery, the antiquated but still valued byproduct of actual Barrayaran plantlife. He'd done it without thought at first, but he hadn't minded after he'd realized. It seemed only appropriate - respectful, somehow. Miles, in the very few letters he'd written, had always returned the favor.

It was a strange letter, full of fits and starts. Gregor had first read it heart in mouth, waiting for what, he wasn't entirely sure - for the end of Miles's endurance, or simply for his anger. He had found neither, only a rambling, occasionally cryptic stroll through Miles's mind. Peering into those depths was a lot like trying to see underwater, now. He'd read it countless times since Ivan had put it in his hands, and yet he kept coming back for another go, uncaring addict.

He read a distracted, bemusedly poetic description of the winter landscape with a smile, and then a tart commentary on Komarran profit ethics, partway through which Miles apparently lost the thread of his thoughts and segued into more personal reflections.

_There are few things in this world that aren't illusions. We build our prisons and we make our keys. We are our own dragons, and our own heroes. I feel good this minute. It used to be, only a week ago, I would have good days. Now I have good hours. The spaces are getting smaller and smaller. An illusion, of course, and then again not - I am dying, and that cannot be tricked away. And yet every prison has an exit, even if it isn't the imprisoned who can escape it_.

Gregor turned the page, discomforted. He would never know all of Miles. Miles couldn't even claim that. But he had become accustomed to a level of commonality, a mutual language of opinion and expression built over time. That was slipping away now, as inexorable as Miles himself. A phrase floated to the surface of his mind, uprooted from the dusty archives of an old academy cosmology lecture. _Red shift. He's slipping farther away, and that's all I can see_.

Miles's attention turned then to the people surrounding him, and a rapid succession of quixotically amusing descriptions marched down the page. Gregor paused briefly over Miles's unsubtle comments regarding his father, then moved on. They could make peace between them when he was next there in person, if it pleased Miles. If not, he simply couldn't find it in himself to care. Well, not much, anyway.

From there the letter degenerated into more fragmented efforts, a scattershot of thoughts and opinions that only a careful untangling could easily distinguish. As he had every time, Gregor flinched when he reached, _I miss you_.

There came, at the very end, a last gasp of something resembling clarity. Sentences marshaled themselves into paragraphs, and thoughts followed one another with reasonable lucidity. Gregor liked it least out of the whole scattered ramble, but he gritted his teeth through it one more time.

_You have always valued my opinion, more highly than you should at times. I hope you continue to do so, not out of guilt or a misplaced sense of obligation, but because you still trust me, even now. I don't trust myself much, to be perfectly honest, but you have always had a discerning eye for people, and for me in particular. Thank you for looking. It's a privilege._

I don't want you to be alone. I know it will be your first instinct, and I do understand. But the thought of you spinning out the rest of your days, turning your face away from what could be for the lack of what was . . . it hurts me. You have always taken great pains not to hurt me. It'll be hard. I know your nightmares all too well. I'd hoped to help you defeat them. But then again you are the greatest man I know, and you don't need me for that.

It ended there, abruptly. Gregor restacked the pages with steady hands, replaced them in the drawer, flipped off the light and slid down in the bed. He lay stiff and straight in the silent dark, exhausted and sick. _It's still being unfaithful, even when you ask it. How could you_?

He slipped into a muddled, leaden sleep at last, from which he started awake after what felt like hours but which the illuminated clock face promised was only a few minutes. He rolled onto his side, one arm outflung across the empty bed. Negri lifted his head and blinked at him, eyes luminous in the dark. Miles had not spent a lot of nights here, but more than a few. Gregor had become accustomed with astonishing rapidity to the small, warm weight at his back, or the way Miles would roll him over, spread him out, and sprawl on top, comfortable as you please. For a moment, Gregor allowed himself to contemplate 'after,' a succession of nights and weeks and months and years ahead. And, as he had quietly feared, one glimpse was not enough. The whole vast chasm opened at his feet all at once, the endless time and all the work to be done and no Miles to share it with. He'd spent a decade contemplating that view, and then four years turned aside from it, with another future unfolding. _I did it before . . . but I didn't know before_.

He blinked, startled. _I've loved you without ever expecting anything of it. I've loved you, dead, before. Is there nothing in between, with which to go on_? He'd spent so much time on now, on today, on the next hour, on the next breath - more often Miles's than his own. And all along Miles, whose own view was about to come up painfully short, was seeing furthest of them all.

_If you're starting to make sense to me, does that make you brilliant or does it make me crazy right along with you_?

And then the rest of it came, an explosion of awareness, full grown and complete. There had not been space for such a thought before, but here alone in the dark, with Miles's words opening him up like a reluctant oyster, there was suddenly room to spare. _Oh. You devious little_ . . .

He swung out of bed, fired with sudden energy, ignoring Negri's indignant _mrow_ as the covers were tossed over his head. He made it over to the comconsole concealed in a corner cabinet, swearing and nursing a stubbed toe. He slid into the chair and took only a brief moment to smooth face and sleepwear into something resembling order.

He checked the Residence clinic first, without much hope. It was very late, and even Ghale had to sleep sometimes, whether he admitted it or not. But as it happened, Ghale was just on his way out, and the medic on comconsole duty, after being assured that Gregor didn't have so much as a paper cut, called him back.

"Sire?" Ghale said, leaning over the back of the chair into range.

"A word, if you please," Gregor said.

"Ah." Ghale sounded entirely unsurprised. He vanished, and a moment later reappeared, this time framed by a small, private office. "How may I serve?" he asked, settling into the chair and clasping his hands before him.

Gregor took a breath. "You said that the poison is only in Miles's brain. That it's not affecting the rest of his body on a cellular level, or at least not damaging it. Is that right?"

"Yes."

"So," said Gregor, words beginning to rush, "can he still - will his - is a genetic sample still safe and viable?"

"Yes," Ghale said immediately. Gregor sat back, suddenly breathless, but Ghale was not finished. "Lord Vorkosigan asked me not to mention it, unless and until you asked."

"So he knows about this?" Gregor asked, already sure of the answer.

"Oh, I should say so. He left an appropriate array of samples with me before he departed the city. Not my field, of course, but they have been properly preserved and can be forwarded if required."

"Oh," breathed Gregor. That, he had not been expecting. "You brilliant little weasel . . . of course you can do both, you're already halfway to schizoid anyway." He sat still a moment, pinned by the enormity of the thing. _You've been prodding me through the steps of grief like a master horseman, all to get me here_.

"Sire?" Ghale prompted gently. "Would you like me to . . . take any particular action?"

"No," Gregor said slowly. "No. Not now. Not . . . yet." _It's not a way out. It's only a way on. But if that is all, that is enough_.

"Of course," Ghale said, dipping his head. "You have only to ask if or when you change your mind. Lord Vorkosigan signed and sealed a document, giving over all legal rights to you."

"I bet he did." Gregor smiled, fleetingly but with feeling. He was inclined to agree with Miles - the legal binding of a simple betrothal would, in a pinch, suffice for the legitimacy of their children. And failing that, they would make do. He could make do. "Thank you," he said to the patiently waiting Ghale. "Go home. Get some sleep."

Ghale bowed, seated. "And you, Sire."

Gregor cut the com, plunging the room into darkness once more. He sat in the chair, lightly holding the armrests, and breathed. This was a precarious new path Miles had opened up for him, treacherous with pitfalls. He had his doubts about his ability to raise children with Miles around - doing it alone was an entirely different matter. And yet there the way sat, patiently waiting for him, should he require it. _Your only option is to give me more. I think I'm falling in love all over again_.

He swallowed, pressed a hand to his throat. Miles had read him as simply and accurately as a technical manual. He had known, before Gregor himself, what this loss might do to him, and he had, with quick but deft skill, flung out a lifeline, to be seized or not as Gregor chose. _You waited for me to be ready, as I did you, once. But you have so little time, and you wanted to be sure . . . I know now why you seemed so humbled and astonished then_.

He laid his forehead on the smooth surface of the comconsole desk. One tear dropped onto the inlaid wood, then another, and that was all. Gregor took a slow, shaking breath and straightened.

He returned to the bed and curled up, hand tucked under his cheek. He felt spent, as if he had wept for hours, and as if the floods had scoured him painfully, echoingly clean inside. _You want me to be all right? Tonight I am, a very little bit_.

He slipped back into a deep, restful sleep.

Waking was difficult, and he fought it unhappily until the persistent chiming of the comconsole finally penetrated. He sat up, scrubbing at his face. The clock read just shy of three A.M., and a belated adrenaline jolt got him out of bed and across the room. He dropped into the chair, body still unutterably weary, as if the few hours of deep sleep had only whetted his appetite. But there were droves of people dedicated to not having to wake him up in the middle of the night, so when someone actually did . . .

He keyed for visual and blinked into General Allegre's face. _Oh. What now_? At least, he thought distractedly, the constriction in his chest lessening, it was not Cordelia Vorkosigan. Or her husband.

But then the expression on Allegre's face registered, and Gregor sat straight up. He had on only incredibly rare occasions during his reign received a middle of the night wake up call from a Chief of Imperial Security who couldn't stop grinning.

"We have it," Allegre said, the moment he laid eyes on Gregor.

"Have -"

"The antidote. We have it. Or will - the message just got in. They're on their way home, and they've got it."

He bent, as if struck by a body blow. He thought he might laugh. He thought he might shout. _Perhaps I might weep now, after all_. "When?" he managed.

"We're not exactly sure," Allegre said. "Calculating for the length of time it must have taken the tight beam message to get here, they're at least four days out of Jackson's Whole." His smile dimmed a little. "It seems the Jacksonians are sending all the demons of hell after them. They left something of a . . . mess behind them. House Bharaputra is in fits, and the other Barons probably smell blood."

"Oh," said Gregor, smiling foolishly. "That's very appropriate. Miles will approve."

"Quite," Allegre agreed dryly. "In any case, we're only hearing all of this now - they apparently barely waited for approval from Sector 3 HQ before going after the tip, based on the urgency of your orders. We're not positive where exactly they are now, but they could be here in as little as a week or as much as ten days, depending on how difficult the intervening polities feel like being this week."

"Okay," Gregor breathed, doing some very fast mental calculations. It would arrive . . . not a day too soon, but that was still soon enough. And, though it was less than ideal, they could get Miles on a ship and try to intercept. "Okay."

"Also," Allegre said, voice taking on the familiar, soothing patterns of a briefing, "there is a decision to make. If we message now, we could catch them close to a friendly system with a large enough ImpSec presence where they could stop, have the antidote chemically analyzed, and the results sent on to us for home manufacture. It might be faster, but then again we run the risk of wasting the time if it's something we can't put together quickly ourselves."

"Yes. Um." Gregor straightened, took a deep breath. "No message," he said, after only a quick moment's thought. "Just let them come - who is them, anyway?"

"Four Galactic Affairs fellows," Allegre said, glancing down at the information before him. "Their report was understandably sketchy - it seems they were busy running for their lives at the time. It was a small strike, led by a Colonel Ferati. Only one of his lieutenants was wounded, though he says it's serious."

"Okay," Gregor repeated. He wondered a little dizzily if he could make up a whole new class of medal to give them. "Have you told -"

"No. I called you first."

"Right," Gregor said. He took a breath, looked down at his hands and told them to stop shaking until they obeyed. "Thank you," he said, looking up. "I - thank you."

"Our duty, my liege. And to your Consort-to-be," Allegre said formally, and laid two fingers at his forehead in a grave salute before he cut the com.

Gregor called the lights up to a dim glow. He hesitated, then reached decisively for his wristband. He had not contacted Miles this way since he had left for Vorkosigan Surleau. They both liked having vid pick-up, and he'd been given the strong impression that Miles would prefer to initiate all communications on his schedule, when he felt well enough for it. But now . . . Miles would probably forgive him this.

He beeped Miles once, waited, then again, and again. There was no response, and he exhaled hard. Ivan had mentioned more than once that Miles was sleeping very deeply nowadays. He apparently hadn't been kidding.

Gregor abandoned the wristcom and returned to the comconsole, where he keyed for the house. This time, it chimed only briefly before being answered, not by a night duty Armsman or servant, but by the Count himself, still in shirt-sleeves and clearly wide awake.

"Aral," Gregor said rapidly. "I need to speak to Miles."

The Count frowned. "He's asleep," he said. "He needs his rest."

"I know, and I entirely agree. But this is important. Wake him up, please."

Aral opened his mouth, then drew up short. He scorched Gregor with a long, hard look, then turned and vanished from the pick-up without a word. Gregor waited an agonizing interval, hands working convulsively at each other, before the murmur of low voices returned. The Count appeared, reaching over to widen the pick-up angle, and there was Ivan, rumpled but alert, carrying a drowsing Miles.

"Hey," Ivan said, combining a greeting with a prod for his cousin. "Come on now. It's that fiancé of yours. Wakey wakey."

Miles stirred, yawned hugely, then blinked into the vid pick-up as Ivan turned to give him a view. "Hi," he said, and hit Gregor with a sweetly pleased smile. "What's goin' on?"

"The antidote is on its way from Jackson's Whole," Gregor said steadily, trying his best to hold Miles's wandering gaze. "It'll be here in a week, at the soonest."

Ivan started, and Miles yelped in suddenly wakened outrage as he was fumbled and nearly dropped.

"Sorry," Ivan said absently, resettling him. His eyes flicked rapidly from Gregor to the Count, who was clutching the back of the comconsole chair with white-knuckled hands and bending over a bit, almost exactly as Gregor had earlier. "Uncle Aral, your heart -"

The Count straightened. "My heart is just fine, boy," he breathed. "It's just fine."

They all stared at Miles, who blinked ingenuously back. "So . . . I'm not going to die?" he asked slowly.

"No," Gregor said gently. Through his elation, he could feel the sick dread in his gut. He had not seen Miles like this before.

"Oh," said Miles thoughtfully. "That's . . . unexpected." He blinked again, then smiled that quick flashing Miles grin. "That's . . . nice. Really nice. Don't let me forget," he added, prodding at Ivan's shoulder. "Okay? Don't let me forget."

"I won't," Ivan said hoarsely.

"Will you step out for a moment?" Gregor asked, including the Count in his glance. "I'd like a word."

"Um." Ivan looked uncertainly down at Miles. "I don't know if you . . . I wouldn't expect -"

"I know. All the same." He jerked his chin imperatively, and Ivan settled Miles solicitously in the comconsole chair, tucking a blanket around his shoulders and repeatedly straightening him up until it seemed to stick. The Count stood watching, fists on hips, a tiny smile playing about his mouth. He moved forward as Ivan turned to go, and ghosted a hand over Miles's hair and down his cheek. His glance into the vid pick-up was very brief and entirely closed.

"So," Gregor said when he was gone. "I talked to Ghale tonight. Your doctor," he added, when Miles's blank expression didn't change.

"About what?" Miles asked.

"About the samples you left with him. Do you remember doing that?"

Miles forehead creased in a deep frown for a long moment. "Oh," he said at last, brightening. "Yes. For the children, yes."

"Yes," Gregor breathed. "I . . . you may not remember this later but I just wanted to say . . ." He swallowed heavily. "That you . . . humble me and I am so - I love -"

"I know," Miles said with an easy smile. "Me, too." He paused a little, squinting. "I'm not going to die? You're sure?"

"Yes."

"Okay." Miles began slumping in the chair, like a man melting. "Gregor, I do love you, but can I go back to bed now?"

"Yes," said Gregor. "Go on. I'll see you soon."


	14. Chapter 14

Word came late in the evening seven days later. Allegre delivered it in person, in a style that could be described as almost giddy. Gregor, well on his way there himself, thought absently that the man must be feeling about twenty years younger with the growing certainty that he would not be the Chief of ImpSec who lost the Emperor's fianc

Growing certainty. Not just growing - blooming. The antidote was safely within the bounds of the Imperium. Colonel Farati had checked in at ImpSec Komarr as he hurtled past, and, accounting for the transmission delay, the fast courier should arrive in just three days. It was like an arctic sunrise, the first blaze of light after months of darkness. Gregor spent the intervening days in a state of suspended impatience, alternately ebullient and cautious. A small, dark corner of his mind offered up last horrors - a crack Jacksonian retribution squad, an incalculably unlikely jump navigation error leaving the courier and its cargo atomized and scattered across the Nexus. Gregor let these thoughts come, tasted their bitterness, and carried on, letting the glowing, floaty feeling return. It wasn't until he noticed everyone smiling back at him that he realized what a dour wraith of a bridegroom he must have been. No wonder rumors were flying.

It was decided - by Gregor, and forcibly so - that he would take the antidote up to Vorkosigan Surleau personally, accompanied by the medical team. They would administer it there, without having to move Miles at all. He probably wouldn't be able to stay very long; with the news of the antidote, preparations for the betrothal had kicked into sudden, high gear. Lady Alys, though not neglecting the plans, had perforce put off several crucial steps that Miles could not have participated in. The bill was about to come due for the weeks of enforced absence and silence. It was going to be enormous, and Gregor was prepared to pay it gladly.

"You need to throw a party," Alys informed Gregor, two days before the antidote was scheduled to arrive. "A pre-betrothal ball in Miles's honor, so that everyone can see him, and see the two of you together."

Gregor raised his eyebrows, considered it, and then shook his head. "I don't know. You've seen him more recently than I have - do you really think he's well enough for something like that?"

"No," Alys admitted. "But we could schedule it for a week from now, at Vorkosigan Surleau. It's terribly gauche haste, but the need is rather desperate. We have to give everyone at least a week to dress, or I'd say sooner."

"Not literally, surely," Gregor muttered, and pressed his fingertips to the bridge of his nose. "I don't argue the necessity," he said, "or the hurry. But Miles will only have had the antidote for five days. We've very little to go on in terms of how his recovery might progress, let alone further complications." He shook his head decisively. "I'm sorry, Alys, but I'm not willing to put him in danger for a publicity stunt."

She looked at him, lips pursed. "This isn't a stunt, Gregor, this is damage control. It is _necessary_. If you don't do this, people will continue to talk and we won't be able to control what they're saying. It will make the two of you weak, going into what will undoubtedly be a very trying six months."

She was right and Gregor knew it. She and Sitzen must have it half-planned by now, in fact. "All right," Gregor said. "But Miles's health takes precedence. If it becomes clear that he won't be well enough -"

"Of course," Alys said. She made a small note on her flimsy, and glanced back up. "Thank you."

And so it was that Gregor found himself, feet carrying him through an uncharacteristic spurt of pacing, in his office a scant fifty-two hours later on a late winter afternoon. The sky outside the north-facing windows was a dark gray mass, threatening a heavy snowfall. Allegre, seated on one of the sofas, watched him without comment. Negri, perched on his desk, was also silent, though his green eyes held rather more reproach than Allegre's.

"I think I shall reinstate the practice of awarding the title of Vor on merit," Gregor said thoughtfully. "And I can start with these four."

Allegre stirred. "Are you quite certain that's wise, Sire?"

"Well, no. It really isn't much of a reward when you come right down to it." He paused at the windows, checked the sky, worried briefly that the orbital shuttle would be delayed by the weather, then turned away.

"I wouldn't know," Allegre said. "Though it has always seemed to me that the greatest reward for hard work well done is a greater task laid on your shoulders." He rose, and subtly headed off Gregor's next pass. "They did their duty."

Gregor bent his head. "Men and women do great things in my service every day," he said softly. "And terrible things - let's not forget that. But in my name and . . . for me are two different things."

"Not to them."

"No. I suppose not." He lifted his head. "I don't think I will forget that again." He paused. "A greater task, eh? A promotion?"

"Of course, Sire," Allegre said, and adroitly herded Gregor around his desk.

Negri hopped down into his lap and purred his approval as Gregor returned to his seat. Now that seeing Miles again would come in a matter of hours rather than indeterminate days or even weeks, his impatience surged like a restless sea. He would not be going empty handed this time.

Allegre's comlink beeped. He murmured into it, listened, then rose. "They've landed. If you'll excuse me, Sire, I'd like to meet them on their way in."

Gregor nodded and waved him out. Either Allegre wanted to get a preliminary report on the fly before he was dragged off in Gregor's wake to Vorkosigan Surleau tonight, or he felt it prudent to brief his people on the etiquette of handling an overly grateful liege. Gregor tapped distractedly at his comconsole. He stared blankly at a terraforming progress report for a moment, then found himself calling up one of the numerous texts Lady Alys had provided him on the subject of high Vor and Imperial weddings. Technically speaking, this would be only the third time a reigning Emperor had married in nearly two hundred and fifty years, and he didn't really think Ezar's hasty, mid-war union counted. How then, he wondered wryly, could there be so much bloody precedent?

He wondered if anyone had reminded Miles about the Admonishments to the Bride. He guessed not. Miles would either throw a fit, or say something rude and do his duty with maximum martyrdom.

There was a brief rap at the door, and Gregor looked up as Allegre entered, ushering four men in with him. They were, as was customary for active military personnel setting foot within the Residence or having an audience with Gregor himself, in full dress uniform. They didn't look nearly as harried as he had expected, though he supposed the last leg of the trip from Komarr must have been a comparative vacation.

He decamped Negri, rose to his feet, and came around the desk to greet them. Colonel Farati, in the lead, wasted no time in laying a small, surprisingly heavy refrigeration case in his hand.

"Ah," said Gregor, closing his fingers around it and feeling the solid heft of it. "Ah. Thank you." He held it for a moment, then passed it on to Allegre so he could shake their hands as they were introduced. The last man in line, a dark-complexioned fellow with lieutenant's tabs and a wary look about him, hesitated a long moment before offering his left hand.

"I apologize, Sire -" he began. The right sleeve of his uniform had been hastily folded and pinned back as to not flap loosely where the forearm and wrist used to be.

Gregor shook his head. "Do you need medical attention?" he asked, shooting Allegre a mildly reproving frown.

"No, Sire," the lieutenant - Alexis Avalos, Allegre had said - replied in a slow, precise style which Gregor suspected masked a provincial, most likely Greek accent. "I have to wait a few weeks before I can be fitted for a prosthesis."

His field career was over, and he knew it. Gregor made a mental note to take a look at his file later, see what else could be found for him.

"Well," he said, stepping back and leaning on the edge of his desk. He considered the group of them for a moment, fingers drumming restlessly at the seam of his trousers. "I'm not entirely sure what to do with you," he said honestly.

"Do, Sire?" Colonel Farati repeated, obviously puzzled.

Gregor sighed. Allegre, it seemed, was right. "Never mind," he said. "We can worry about medals and commendations and everything else later. Please know, however, that my gratitude for this service is boundless. You have saved a man's life - a life which matters a great deal to me." He saluted them formally, gravely and they returned it with startled haste. "Now," he added, struck by sudden inspiration. "In a few days we're going to have a pre-betrothal celebration down at Vorkosigan Surleau. You all look like you badly need a party." This was entirely true. They reminded him of the glimpses he used to get of Miles in his Admiral Naismith days, home on leave or to recover from injury. He'd often been unusually silent, sometimes hollow-eyed, triumphant and weary and strung out. "It won't really be fun," he added conscientiously. "A bunch of staggering bores drinking a lot and snarling at each other, actually, but I know Count and Countess Vorkosigan would be glad to have you, and I imagine Miles would like a word."

"Is it true that Lord Auditor Vorkosigan used to be in galactic covert operations?" the captain in the bunch asked, avidly curious.

Gregor blinked. _How the hell do the rumors travel faster than tight-beam messages, all the way to Jackson's Whole_? "Yes," he said. "He was in covert ops for nearly a decade. He spent more than a little time on and around Jackson's Whole, in fact." He grimaced. "Though perhaps he might not enjoy reminiscing about some of that. It's not required," he added, seeing the exchange of a few uncertain glances. "If you have families you'd like to spend time with -" unlikely, for the galactic ops types, "- or if you're simply tired, then don't come. But you are most welcome. You need not decide now. Just let General Allegre know sometime in the next few days."

"Thank you, Sire," they murmured.

Gregor shot a look up at the wall chrono and straightened. "And now, I must be going. Thank you, gentlemen. I hope we'll see each other again soon."

He met Ghale on his way down, along with half the medical staff, and just as much of the equipment, from the Residence clinic. They ended up in a small fleet of aircars, and Gregor didn't mind much when Allegre and Vortala maneuvered him into a vehicle alone with them. After only a very short eternity, they were banking over the long lake, now barely visible as a flat expanse of sunken ice in an otherwise rolling vista of snow, and then making the long glide into the landing and then on into the garage. Gregor alighted without waiting for his security, and he only realized he had lengthened his stride to a near jog when he heard everyone scrambling to keep up with him.

Cordelia met him as he stepped into the house. Gregor was momentarily startled by her appearance - she'd lost weight since he'd seen her last, and she simply looked older than he remembered - but then she stepped unexpectedly close and gripped his hands.

"Ghale has it," Gregor said immediately.

She blinked, nodded. "Yes," she breathed through her teeth, with a flicker of triumph so quietly savage that Gregor almost took a step back. But then it was gone, and she was smiling warmly up at him again, a lioness suddenly transformed into a housecat. "He's upstairs, waiting for you."

Gregor nodded and sought over his shoulder for Ghale. "Give me ten minutes," he said.

"Very good, Sire."

Gregor cut his way through the crowd and took the stairs at a trot. Colonel Inceri, posted outside Miles's door, came to abrupt attention as he approached.

"Anything to report?" he heard Vortala asking as he rapped at the door.

"Nothing. It's been very quiet around here -"

But then the door was opening and he was not listening anymore. Ivan peered out, wearing shapeless black slacks and bags under his eyes to match, then flung the door wide with a sigh of relief that sounded like it came from his toes. "Thank God," he said quietly. "Is it here?"

"Yes," Gregor said. "Is he - awake?"

"Sort of." Ivan stepped aside and gestured him through the sitting room to the bedroom.

"They'll be up soon to start giving him the antidote. I wanted a little - I wanted to see him first. Could you give us a few minutes?"

Ivan nodded, and then frowned. "I should warn you. He's not - he's not himself."

"I know."

"No, I mean . . ." Ivan stepped closer and lowered his voice to a near whisper. "He didn't know my name this morning."

Gregor inhaled. "He didn't really forget -"

"Yes. He did."

Gregor wondered briefly, helplessly, if he, too, had been forgotten. If Ivan could vanish into the murk that had become Miles's reality . . .

Ivan met his eyes squarely. "The antidote didn't come a day too soon. Maybe literally."

"I see." He'd prepared himself for the worst, or so he'd thought. _What if he doesn't come back_? Gregor shook himself. "We'll be fine," he said, because Ivan didn't seem to be leaving.

"Erm," said Ivan, and ducked hastily through the bedroom door. Following him, Gregor found Count Vorkosigan seated on the edge of the bed where his son lay submerged and nearly invisible beneath the covers. The Count held a book open on his lap, and he read from it in a low, hoarse voice. "Uncle Aral?" said Ivan. "Why don't we go, er . . ."

"I think Ghale would like to speak to you and Cordelia," Gregor supplied.

The Count looked up, then rose and put the book aside. His eyes briefly met Gregor's and his mouth twisted with something strained and ambiguous as he passed on his way out. Gregor vented a barely audible sigh, and Ivan gave him a helpless look as he followed the Count out, shutting the door quietly behind them.

Miles was half-sitting up in bed with his eyes shut, not yet dressed. He seemed pale and insulated, entirely unaware that Gregor was there until he sat beside him on the bed and took his hand. Miles's eyes opened then, and he watched, listlessly, as Gregor lifted the hand to his lips. "Hi," Gregor said, lips moving against Miles's knuckles.

"Hey," Miles breathed, blessed recognition in his eyes. He lifted a hand to touch Gregor's face.

"It's here," Gregor said. "The antidote. Ghale's downstairs and they're going to give it to you right here." He paused, and then sensing the need for more, he added, "You're going to live."

Miles's face worked, and for a moment Gregor found himself with absolutely no idea what was going on in that strange, disintegrating brain. "Think . . . Ivan told me. Or Da." His brow wrinkled a little. "You'll stay?"

"Of course," Gregor replied. "I'll be here the whole time. I can stay tonight, too. I have to leave in the morning, but I'll be back soon. We're going to have a party."

"A party?" Miles sighed. "Too tired. I'm so tired . . ." His eyes drifted shut briefly, and he murmured, "'m so tired, can't remember what it's like . . . to not be . . ."

"Soon you won't be tired," Gregor said, throat tight. He took a breath to steady himself. "And we'll have a lot to celebrate," he added. "And then maybe you can come home."

"Yeah," said Miles, in the distractedly placatory tones of someone who had been talked at a lot and who was no longer following much of it.

There was a knock at the door then, signaling the arrival of Ghale and the medical team. Gregor bent and kissed Miles briefly, and felt the touch of Miles's hand in his hair. Then he pulled back and watched from inches away until Miles nodded, before going to let them in.

It was not as simple as a hypospray. It would have to be administered through the spine, Ghale had explained, so that it would enter the nervous system immediately. And because the chemical formula was rather volatile, they would have to forgo the usual anesthesia. In other words, it was going to hurt. Gregor let himself be pushed gently out of the way, and went to stand with Cordelia, Aral, and Ivan next to the wall, where they were out of the way but where Miles could see them easily when they rolled him over onto his side. His eyes were closed, and he didn't respond to Ghale's apologetic, "My lord, this is going to be painful. Are you ready?" After a beat, Ghale looked up, and Gregor gave him a nod.

Gregor couldn't see what was happening, but he saw the moment that Miles's eyes flew open, then when he jerked and grabbed the bedsheet. One of Ghale's underlings held him still, his hands careful on Miles's small shoulders. Miles's eyes sought Gregor's, the pain somehow giving his gaze a sharper edge than it had possessed in weeks. Gregor put his hand over his heart, and Miles managed a sort of smile through his clenched teeth. And then relaxed suddenly, bonelessly, all the breath going out of him in a rush as Ghale straightened from behind him. The attendant who had been holding Miles released him slowly, settling him carefully on his side, and Gregor stepped forward, trying to get closer without being in the way.

"Is that - all?" the Count asked hoarsely. "I mean, it's just the once?"

"Yes, fortunately," Ghale said, whilst filling a syringe with a clear liquid. "It will neutralize the toxins in his brain almost immediately. We should see measurable results within the next twelve hours."

But Gregor knew what the Count had really meant. The steep slide downward had been so long, so steady, so unending, and now it was over. But he knew, looking down at Miles, pale and inert on the bed, that it was hardly over. The climb back up would be, in some ways, just as difficult, and probably twice as long. But they would get there. Neither quickly nor painlessly, but eventually.

"We'll know more in the morning," Ghale said, as if reading their thoughts. "At which point we can begin a course of CNS stimulants and other treatments to promote recovery." He leaned over the bed, reflexively glancing at Miles's vitals displayed on a wrist monitor. "Lord Vorkosigan, I'd like to give you a sedative, with your permission. It will probably be easier if you sleep for awhile."

"Yes," Miles murmured, face pressed into the bed. There was the soft hiss of a hypospray, and moments later he was asleep. Gregor realized suddenly that Cordelia was beside him, gripping his hand. Aral lurked at his shoulder, and Gregor had the sudden urge to turn and say something to him. It was over now, and everything just seemed so _petty_ in comparison. But he feared what he would see if he turned just then, and in the end let cowardice win out. It was just too soon.

Miles slept through the rest of that day and straight through the night. But when Gregor woke the next morning he found Miles awake before him, curled on his side and staring fixedly at his hand lying on the mattress, which he squeezed and flexed over and over.

"Miles?" Gregor murmured.

"It's better," Miles said. He looked at Gregor. "It's better."

"Ghale said it would be fast."

"I don't remember that," Miles said. He watched his hand for a few more seconds, and then let it lie still.

Gregor found it and laced their fingers. "I have to go," he said. "But I'll be back in four days for the party. Imagine how much better you'll be by then."

"Party?" Miles repeated, frowning.

"For the betrothal. And you. Alys insisted, but if you're not well enough, of course we won't -"

"I will be." Miles closed his eyes. "I'll be well enough."

He was asleep again by the time Gregor left.

*~*~*

By the time he boarded his aircar again for the trip back to Vorkosigan Surleau, Gregor could hardly remember anything he had done in the last three days. For perhaps the first time, he found himself grateful that his movements were recorded in five minute increments. Usually looking at the diary made him feel a little like someone was holding a pillow over his face, but when he did so the morning before he left, he found himself wondering exactly what he'd done to make his meeting with Galeni and the Komarran Counselor to hash out the last details of the soletta array expansion so successful. Luckily for everyone, it seemed his brain had an autopilot function he'd previously been unaware of.

They ended up with an entire entourage again, what with Gregor's agents and the four Jackson's Whole fellows, plus the Koudelkas and other family friends. Gregor let himself be distracted by work, until his concentration gave out a few minutes before they were scheduled to land and he ended up staring out the window. Allegre and Vortala spoke in quiet undertones, mercifully leaving him to himself. He found himself unaccountably nervous as they approached the lake house, his hands sweaty and his heartbeat too fast. He'd spoken to Miles several times over the last few days, just that morning, in fact, and he had looked better each time. He'd complained of exhaustion, and Ivan said he was frustrated that he wasn't getting better fast enough to suit him, but he was undeniably better. So why, Gregor wondered, as he climbed out of the aircar, did he feel like he was about to be sick?

Cordelia met him at the door again, just as she had a few days earlier. She was dressed for the party already, in something blue and fluttery, and she smelled sweetly of the hothouse flowers in her hair. Gregor greeted her with a kiss on the cheek, and she gripped his hands, seeming to sense his nerves. "He's upstairs," she said.

"Is he ready for this? We could still cancel."

She shook her head carefully, so as not to dislodge the flowers. "It's a little late at this point, and he insists he's fine. Ghale gave him some stimulants a little while ago. Go on up."

Miles's door was open as Gregor approached. Inceri saluted him gravely, and Gregor returned it with a nod before knocking and stepping inside. Miles was sitting on the window seat, staring out at the broad expanse of snow-covered lawn, socked feet swinging. He seemed to be without Ivan, possibly for the first time in days, and that alone made a little of the sick feeling in Gregor's stomach dissipate. He must be better for them to leave him alone, however temporarily.

"Miles," Gregor said, since he seemed not to have heard the knock.

Miles turned from the window, a smile lighting his face, and he scrambled to his feet. He looked like he was going to try the usual trick and hop up on the nearest piece of furniture for a proper hello, but Gregor hadn't the patience to wait. He crossed the room in a few long strides and pressed Miles close. _When did he get so small_? Miles made a soft, relieved sound and pressed his face into Gregor's tunic. Gregor held him a moment longer, looking down at the way his own hands seemed to take up all available space on Miles's back. Miles had always been this size, of course, but Gregor so rarely noticed the great height advantage he had. Such was the force of Miles's . . . what? Personality? Charisma? Slightly dysfunctional belief that he was six feet tall?

Gregor held him away for a long, hard look. "How are you?"

"Getting more annoying by the day, or so I'm told," Miles said lightly. "I'm fine," he added more seriously. "I can feel this stuff working. It's like a breath of fresh air."

"Are you certain about tonight?" Gregor pressed. "Dinner will take hours, and we'll have to open the dancing, and -"

Miles lifted a hand. "We can't get out of it now. And it really is necessary, from what I understand. Which, admittedly, was damned little in the past week." He smiled grimly. "Besides, Da always squirrels away some of the best wine for parties. And . . . we're badly in need of damage control."

There was a discreet cough from the bedroom doorway and Pym appeared, Miles's boots in his hands and the tunic draped over his arm. "M'lord?"

Gregor waited in the window seat as he finished dressing. The thick security glass was incongruously warm against his cheek with the first flurries of a minor gale whipping past. He listened at first absently, then with sharpening attention to the dialogue floating through the open bedroom door. Ivan was keeping Miles talking, and it took Gregor several minutes to recognize the apparent aimless chatter for the skillful assessment it was. Miles, if he knew, wasn't letting on.

Ivan emerged after a moment, and Gregor lifted an inquiring eyebrow. "Well?"

Ivan flung both hands out. "I'm not a doctor."

"No, but you're the closest thing we've got to an expert on Miles's mental state. What do you think?"

Ivan blinked as if surprised to be asked, started to say something, then reconsidered. "I think . . . I think he's talking in complete sentences and he can remember what he's doing from one minute to the next," he said. "And I also think he's not nearly as well as he'd like you to believe."

Miles appeared in the bedroom doorway. "Are you two done discussing me? Because the guests should be arriving soon and I'd like to get this show on the road."

Gregor rose, discomforted once more by this easy flippancy. He would, he realized, have been a lot happier with some high Miles melodrama. He himself was still reeling from the mental whiplash, the sudden ascent from the depths of despair to an ever-climbing peak of breathless anticipation. Miles, by all appearances, wasn't feeling so much as a bump. He thought of saying something, decided it would do more harm than good, and offered Miles his arm. He squeezed the hand Miles settled there and steered them towards the door. He had to sharply adjust his stride after only two steps when it became clear that Miles could not keep up with their usual clip.

"I'll manage," Miles said, jaw setting, before Gregor could say anything.

As it turned out, he was correct. The first guests were arriving by the time they worked their way downstairs, and Gregor watched as Miles seemed to grow more substantial before his very eyes. He was charming and warm as they greeted guests, his grip firm and steady as he shook hands and accepted good wishes for his recovery ranging from the genuine to the sarcastic. He stood straight and unwavering at Gregor's side, enduring the scrutiny of friend and foe alike with a raised chin and a challenging look. There was no way anyone would believe he was perfectly healthy, not with the alarming amount of weight he'd dropped, but as Ivan had said, they were getting complete, coherent, even clever sentences, and no one could wish for more at this point. If anything, Gregor thought ruefully as they went in for dinner, the fact that Miles was visibly ill, yet not debilitated might actually work to quash some of the more outrageous rumors.

After a fabulous Ma Kosti meal, followed by a solid hour and a half of toasting, he escorted Miles out onto the antique ballroom floor to open the dancing. They had discovered after the announcement that there was not much they could do to salvage the visual effect of dancing together. The height difference, coupled with the fact that Miles simply refused to follow with any consistency, made the whole thing mildly laughable, and the sooner the other couples came onto the floor, the better it was for all concerned. Gregor settled his hold on Miles's hand and back, preparing at any moment to prop him up if he needed it. They made their way through the opening steps with a minimum of tugging and glaring, and Gregor slowly began to relax.

He found a smile curving his lips. Miles caught his eye and moved a little closer.

"In a year," Gregor said suddenly, gripping his hand, "or whenever it is that we decide to start the first child, I'd like to use the samples you left with Ghale, if you don't mind."

Miles started. "Gregor -"

"We don't have to discuss it now," Gregor said hastily. "I just . . . I'd like to expand that particular moment of . . . potential."

"I think I like that," Miles said quietly, and for a moment, a very brief interval, Gregor was holding the man who had been his lover for four years, not the distant stranger of the past weeks, nor even the controlled, impenetrable soldier of the afternoon. He breathed an internal sigh of profound relief. Miles would be all right, and they would be all right.

They parted ways after the first dance, Gregor back out onto the floor with Cordelia and Miles off to hold court from an armchair. They caught each other only in passing after that, finding themselves in overlapping conversations as groups formed and disbursed. Miles was being conservative with the dancing, Gregor saw in relief as he escorted Rhysa Racozy past the conversation nook where Miles was deep in conference with Dono Vorrutyer. He was sitting out far more than he danced, and his energy seemed, if not unflagging, at least not exhausted.

Gregor joined him there after the mirror dance, finding the group expanded to include the Vorbrettens, Henri, and a handful of ministerial allies. Gregor hung back a moment, watching and listening as a cheerfully friendly debate over the last appropriations of the calendar year flourished under Miles's benevolent eye.

Ivan wandered up, casting searching glances around and frowning distractedly.

"Can we start kicking people out yet?" Gregor asked under his breath.

Ivan grinned. "I believe it's traditional to wait until the first high government official is sick or passes out." He cast a quick glance into Miles's alcove, frown deepening.

"Looking for someone?" Gregor asked, his eye catching Madame Vorsoisson headed their way.

"Just Byerly Vorrutyer," Ivan said, shrugging. "It might not matter now, but he was supposed to get back to me about something. I don't even think he's here, though."

"Haven't seen him," Gregor said. His gaze inadvertently crossed Madame Vorsoisson's, and she faltered minutely before continuing.

"It raises questions of overextension," Dono Vorrutyer was saying at his back. "It was bloody hard enough getting the appropriation through the first time for the clean-up and rehab - asking to double it in the next month sends a clear signal that we've bitten off more than we can chew."

"That would be because we have," René muttered.

"Ask my father about reclaiming the old Caravanserai," Miles said. "As I recall, it took something like quadruple the money and time initially projected." Gregor glanced back to see his expressive shrug. "Is anyone honestly surprised?"

"Where's Drade?" Dono asked. "He'll have some more concrete numbers."

"Still doesn't make up for what he doesn't have," Minister Van said morosely. "A string of successful raids and arrests. We can pour money into this thing until we're all bankrupt, but it won't do any good unless we stop it at the source."

"I rather thought we would have made progress on that by now myself," René said. "But there hasn't been so much as a hint."

"Poor Drade," Miles said, then shrugged at a round of disbelieving looks. "He's an administrator sitting on top of an investigative operation. These things don't go as expected, and you can never count on a time table."

"He has been looking awfully worn down lately," Dono put in. "I suppose you're right, Miles."

"Excuse me," Ivan murmured, apparently abandoning the absent Byerly for the very much present Ekaterin Vorsoisson. Gregor breathed a little easier as Ivan intercepted her and began subtly steering her towards the dance floor.

He turned, intending to join Miles on the sofa, when Count Vorkosigan caught his eye from halfway across the long ballroom. The Count stood, drink in hand, outlined against the closed glass doors onto the terrace, a formidable brown-clad outline against a backdrop of gusting snow. He considered Gregor a moment through narrowed eyes, then lifted a deliberate hand and gestured to a side door. Gregor hesitated, but the Count did not wait for him. He was vastly tempted to ignore the clear invitation, but one look back at the still chatting Miles persuaded his feet to move. They needed to settle this, perhaps more now than ever before.

The Count was waiting for him up the corridor, and he led Gregor deeper into the house in silence. They turned at last through a narrow doorway, and Gregor started a little to find himself in the old study where he and Miles had . . . come to terms. Unlike that time, however, the curtains remained shut, and the Count waved the overhead lights up to full brightness. He crossed to the enormous desk, turned, and perched on the edge. Gregor waited in the middle of the room, letting him have the first word as well as the tactical advantage. Somewhere, an old fashioned clock ticked.

The Count inhaled and set his glass aside on the desk before clasping his hands between his knees. "My father," he said at last, "refused to see Miles from the time he was born until well after his fifth birthday, did you know that?"

"Yes," said Gregor cautiously. "He's mentioned it, and I do remember, a little."

"He also attempted to . . . rid his line of the blight brought upon it," Aral said. He paused, then snorted. "Hell, enough euphemisms. He tried to kill my son, once. Sergeant Bothari was all that prevented him from succeeding."

Gregor remained silent. That, he had not known.

"They are much on my mind lately," Aral continued, speaking to his hands. "Fathers. Mine, of course. But yours as well, and your grandfather, too."

A chill worked its way up Gregor's spine. This was a subject he and the Count had never touched on together. What very few conversations he'd had concerning Crown Prince Serg had all taken place with Miles or his mother. "Not my great uncle?" he asked.

"No," Aral said. "Not particularly. Did you know that your father possessed a marked preference for men?" he asked abruptly.

Gregor allowed himself only one startled blink. "No," he said carefully. _Pregnant women, yes. The helpless and unwilling, yes_.

"Well, he did. Here's another one for you - so did I. No," he added, seeing the horrified expression growing on Gregor's face. "It wasn't like that. I just didn't think anyone had told you that you aren't entirely unprecedented in your . . . choices."

"Oh," said Gregor. "I . . . see." He didn't, or at least not much more clearly than he had the last time they'd spoken in this house - screamed, rather. He was more and more sure, though, as he had not been in years past, that the ghost of Serg Vorbarra dogged the Count as stubbornly as he did Gregor, sometimes.

Aral fell silent again, looking up, and Gregor had to exercise a great effort not to shift uneasily beneath that stare. "I refuse," the Count said at last, an edge of steel creeping into his words, "I refuse to give up access to my grandchildren. I will not be that man."

"I . . . am glad," Gregor said cautiously.

"This is what getting old does to you," Aral said, as if at random. "It makes the past seem almost as real as the present. It also makes you painfully aware of how very locked into it we can become." His mouth twisted bitterly. "Ezar Vorbarra failed his son in a . . . spectacularly tragic fashion, though it could be argued that he did save you from being failed in turn. And my father . . . well." He trailed off. "We must do better," he said, as if to himself. "We must do better by our children than we were done by. Or else what's the point of the whole mess?"

Gregor shifted uneasily. "I don't think anyone could ever accuse you of not doing well by Miles," he said.

"No?" Aral lifted an ironic eyebrow. "You did."

"I was very angry." He inhaled carefully. "I wish to offer my sincere -"

Aral lifted a hand. "None of that, boy. I thought I taught you never to apologize for being right."

Gregor floundered momentarily. "I'm sure Miles will be relieved to hear that you and I have, ah . . ."

"Agreed to co-exist," the Count suggested dryly.

Gregor dipped his chin. "Just so. You know, he once told me that your father was one of the first people he began to remember when he had amnesia."

Aral smiled wryly. "I'm not surprised. The old bastard did well enough by him, in his own decidedly peculiar way." He rose and retrieved his wine glass. "I wish you had never declared yourself to him," he said in a flat, businesslike tone. "Or failing that, I wish he had possessed the sense to refuse you." He shrugged and crossed the room, free hand falling heavy with gruff, recently unused affection on Gregor's shoulder. "But I can be glad for you both. Oddly, one does not preclude the other."

"Thank you," Gregor breathed.

There was a light rap at the door, and Cordelia stuck her head in. An expression of profound relief crossed her face when she caught sight of them, and she hit them both with an approving smile. "There you are. Count Vordovon has gotten spectacularly sick in the potted roses in the entryway. I think we can start sending people home now."

"Where's Miles?" Gregor asked, moving towards the door.

She frowned fleetingly. "I was just looking for him. I thought he might be back here with the two of you."

"I left him in the ballroom," Gregor said. "He's probably still there somewhere, or maybe he got tired and went upstairs."

"Pym is checking." She gestured them to hurry. "Come on. They should have poured Vordovon into his aircar by now."

He re-entered the ballroom flanked by the Vorkosigans, a state of affairs that did not go unnoticed, he was sure. The whispers of estrangement could only be wild guesses, but it didn't hurt to settle them as quickly as possible. No one spotted Miles immediately, and they split up to make a quick circuit of the room. Gregor looked first into the alcove where he had last seen Miles, but it was deserted. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Pym enter and shake his head at the Countess.

Gregor circled the room once, quickly but carefully. He, Aral, and Cordelia reconvened at the side door, all unsuccessful. Gregor took one more look around, then tapped his wristcom. Vortala appeared at his shoulder within seconds.

"I need a location on Miles, please," Gregor said, stepping back out of the ballroom so as not to attract too much attention.

Vortala murmured into his com, then paused. After a moment he tapped at his earpiece, a frown growing. Gregor shifted from one foot to the other, becoming impatient as Vortala repeated his request for information, then began hitting buttons on his security link.

"Inceri isn't answering," he said tensely, then repeated it as Allegre joined them at a near jog.

Allegre swore and reached for his own comlink. "We're up at orange. All units, report in. I want a location on Lord Vorkosigan right now."

"He was with Lord Ivan," Madame Vorsoisson said, appearing suddenly at the Countess's shoulder. "Maybe twenty minutes ago. I think he was tired and wanted to go, but one of the Counts had cornered him."

Vortala and Allegre were listening intently as reports flooded in. Allegre lifted a distracted hand of acknowledgement to Madame Vorsoisson, and repeated the small information. They stood in a tight knot in the narrow corridor, the tension rapidly escalating as the seconds ticked by.

"All right," Allegre snapped at last. "Go to red. Close up the perimeter, and I want a full house and grounds search. Units -" He broke off suddenly, a profoundly relieved expression crossing his face as he pressed a finger to his earpiece. "Inceri? Where the hell -" The relief vanished as quickly as it had come. "Hit your emergency beacon, man. How many agents do we have down?"

Gregor's heart lurched, and he clearly heard Madame Vorsoisson's gasp of alarm. Then Allegre was gesturing sharply and snapping orders, and agents were coming from everywhere, hurrying all of them away from the ballroom and eventually into the private study off the library. Allegre sent Vortala running, and spent several interminable minutes ensconced in the world of his wristcom and earpiece, rapping out low-voiced orders and listening with impenetrable concentration to whatever he was being told.

At last the door opened, and Gregor leaned forward, holding his breath in anticipation of seeing Miles walk through it, because if Inceri could talk, if Inceri was alive, than Miles _had_ to be. The sight of Vortala, surrounded by a pack of tense men still wearing their thick winter gear and supporting a wavering, blood spattered Colonel Inceri, rocked him back where he stood.

"They're both gone," Vortala said, before anyone could speak. "Seven agents are stunned a hundred yards south on the lake shore. There are signs of an extended struggle, and both Lord Vorkosigan and Lord Ivan are missing."


	15. Chapter 15

Ivan's first thought upon waking was, _Oh hell, I'm going to be sick_.

His second was, _Where's Miles_?

His third was interrupted by the need to roll onto his side and retch painfully. Ma Kosti's goodies tasted much better going down. There were bright lights throbbing behind his eyes, and a splitting pain at the base of his skull. Stunner migraine, he recognized immediately, though he'd only been stunned a few times in his life. All of which, come to think of it, had involved his cousin in some way. Which brought him back to his second thought.

Ivan wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his white dress shirt and sat up carefully, cradling his head in his hands and trying to get his bearings. Miles, he was both relieved and horrified to see, was sprawled, still unconscious, just a few feet away. Ivan scooted over and quickly felt his pulse; it was faint but steady. His face was gray, his jaw slack. God only knew how being stunned would interact with the veritable cocktail of drugs floating around in Miles's system at the moment, including the antidote and the stimulants he'd taken to get through the party - not to mention the remnants of the poison itself. Ivan checked Miles over quickly, noting that his gray suit was thankfully clean of blood, though still rather the worse for wear.

He blinked, trying to reconstruct his last few moments of consciousness through the haze of the migraine. He'd danced with Ekaterin and made her laugh twice, he remembered that quite clearly, and then Gregor had disappeared and he'd started keeping an eye on Miles, watching for any signs of fatigue. His cousin had begun to look a little ragged around the edges, and he'd been further alarmed when Miles had acceded to the suggestion of a brief rest upstairs without even arguing. They'd made it as far as the staircase when . . .

Ivan squeezed his eyes shut tight, gently shaking his head as if to help rattle the memories loose. Count Vormoncrief coming out of the party, a few conversational thrusts Miles was obviously incapable of handling right then, trying to extract themselves gracefully . . . a laughing flood of people on their way out for a snowy tramp down to the lake shore with lanterns and heated blankets . . . and in the flurry, a sudden pressure at the base of Ivan's spine, the muzzle grinding hard, and a quiet voice in his ear - "We can blast out your cousin's brain before you make a sound. Don't try anything. We're going outside."

The migraine was slowly abating. At least he didn't feel like vomiting anymore. Unfortunately, that opened the door for a host of other physical sensations, like the numbness in his fingers and on the tip of his nose. Wherever they were, Ivan thought, glancing around, it was some kind of underground cavern. The walls and floor were solid rock, and there was a strangely familiar tang to the air. The only light came from a single, weakening cold light. There was but one exit, it seemed, and Ivan didn't quite feel up to trying to walk out just yet. It would probably get him stunned again. Perhaps if they just stayed where they were, ImpSec would show up on their own. Perhaps whoever had kidnapped them had changed their mind. Perhaps Cetaganda would give up its warring ways and convert the Empire into blue rose-producing, peace-loving nudist colonies.

Ivan blew on his fingers briefly to try to warm them, and then tucked them inside his sleeves as best he could. He looked at Miles, who was probably even colder, just not awake to complain about it. He rubbed at his fingers and pulled his collar up around his neck. At least they'd been left their coats, though that was only going to help so much - it was perhaps the first time Ivan found himself unhappy to be wearing an article of fashion rather than military issue weather gear. Miles showed no sign of waking. Damn, escape was going to be hard if Ivan had to do it while carrying his cousin. And escape they would have to, if ImpSec didn't get off its collective ass very soon.

_I knew that party was a bad idea. But did anyone listen to me? Of course not_.

"Ah, good to see you've woken, Lord Ivan."

Ivan glanced up at the too-casual drawl, and found Count Boriz Vormoncrief leaning in the entrance to the cavern. "You?" Ivan said, startled. Of all the people Ivan had thought might be in on a plot to depose Gregor, _Vormoncrief_ had never occurred to him. The man was too . . . _old_. He was older than Uncle Aral. He must have seen dozens of plots to take over the Imperium fall flat, with their usual disastrous consequences. What could he possibly hope to gain from this?

"How eloquent. Are you surprised?"

_Yes_. Ivan didn't answer. He just shook his head and turned back to trying to get some blood flowing into his cousin's fingers. "Look, I don't know what sort of unhinged plan you have to overthrow Gregor, but it won't work. They never do."

"True." Vormoncrief strolled into the room and came to stand over them. "But no one else had the Imperial Consort-to-be," he said with contempt. "I think I'll get whatever I want."

_Then you don't know Gregor very well_, Ivan wanted to say, but he bit the words off. "And what would that be?" he asked instead, feigning bored curiosity.

"The Imperium, of course. Oh, not for me," he said at Ivan's look. "That's where you come in. Sire."

_I should have listened to Byerly. I should_ never _have listened to Miles. Fuck_.

"No," Ivan said flatly. "No."

"Why not? It's quite the promotion for you, Captain Vorpatril."

"Because I have _never_ wanted the Imperium. Of all the people on this planet, no one wants it less than I do. That's why Miles chose me, you - you _nutcase_. I can't do it!"

"Of course not. And you're not expected to. I'll be doing it. But think of all the perks."

Ivan shook his head, disgusted. "I think you're forgetting that in order for a coup to be successful, the person you're putting into power has to be willing to go along with it."

"Not necessarily."

"Yes, necessarily!" Ivan stared at him, disbelieving. Vormoncrief stared back dispassionately - no, not dispassionately. Blandly. But there was fire burning in the dark eyes, and something dangerously determined in the set of the lined face. His mouth tightened in anger - or perhaps something more complicated. Vormoncrief still wore his House blacks, more than a year after his son's death. _This is not a rational man_.

But Vormoncrief simply sighed. "I had hoped that you would see it my way. You must have been appalled to learn of your cousin's relationship with the Emperor."

"Um."

"It's just one more sign of the galactic decadence seeping in through our ports, the rot of populist ideas."

Ivan sat back. "How long have you been planning this? Long enough to, say, order a designer neurotoxin from Jackson's Whole?" His eyes narrowed. "Doesn't that strike you as a little hypocritical?"

Vormoncrief's right hand clenched and unclenched down by his side, near his stunner. "It's only fair that I use the weapons he himself allows entrance. The Emperor murdered my son with his so-called progressive policies."

"No," said Ivan slowly. "No, I don't think he did. Not like you tried to murder Miles."

"Vorkosigan wasn't even supposed to be involved. This had nothing to do with him until he stepped in front of the damn knife. I thought everything was over then. No one was going to care if Vorkosigan went insane, everyone knows he was halfway there already. But then they announced their - their unnatural union. And _then_ that letter came out and I _knew_ . . . I knew I had him." His lip curled. "By the balls, so to speak."

"He won't give in to you. He can't." Vormoncrief turned away, toward the entrance. _What would Miles say_? Ivan thought frantically. He would bargain. He would weasel. He would placate. "If you let us go now, you might have a chance. You're grieving for your son. Ask Aral Vorkosigan what he wouldn't have been willing to give for Miles - but if Miles dies, that's high treason for sure. Death by exposure in the main square." Gregor had never imposed that sentence on anyone in his entire reign, though Ivan had no doubt he'd ordered his share of quieter, neater executions. But for _this_ . . .

Vormoncrief snorted. "I have no intention of backing down. Save your breath." He turned on his heel and disappeared into the darkness.

Ivan patted his pockets, for the first time remembering his and Miles's comlinks. They were gone, of course, as was Miles's Auditor's seal. Which, come to think of it, he hadn't been carrying around for the last two weeks or so anyway. He'd been afraid that he'd lose it. They were completely cut off.

Time crept by. Ivan had been allowed to keep his chrono, and he spent a few moments trying to figure out a way to make use of it. Miles at his cover ops finest could probably have built a homing beacon or a bomb or something, but Ivan was clueless. He gave up on the idea and instead watched Miles for signs of consciousness, his worry increasing the longer his cousin lay unmoving on the stone floor. Their breath formed thin clouds in the frigid air, and he pulled Miles half onto his lap for warmth as he waited for Vormoncrief to return. He had been unconscious for less than an hour, according to the chrono; therefore, they couldn't have gone very far from Vorkosigan Surleau even by lightflyer. But they were obviously nowhere near a large city, and there were dozens of places in the District where they could be hidden. Clearly, Ivan could not rely on ImpSec for rescue. He closed his eyes, imagining the scene back at the party.

When Vormoncrief finally returned, he held two rather ominous hyposprays in his hand. "Synergine," he said in an almost placating tone, holding the first one up. "I won't kill him unless I have to."

"You might have already by stunning him," Ivan grated out.

There was a momentary flash of alarm in Vormoncrief's eyes - after all, a dead Miles was of no use - but then he merely set his jaw and bent over to press the hypospray against Miles's arm. For a long moment, far too long for comfort, there was no reaction at all. Ivan could feel his heart start to hammer; the effect should have been instantaneous. Even Vormoncrief began to look apprehensive. But then there was a small movement, and an even smaller groan, barely a rush of breath between Miles's lips.

"Don't touch him," Ivan snarled, when Vormoncrief reached for him with the other hypospray. Vormoncrief recoiled involuntarily, and did not approach again. Ivan glared at him, and bent his head over Miles. "Come on," he whispered. "Wake up. I can't carry you through this. Come on, Miles."

There was another twitch, and Miles's eyelids fluttered. Out of the corner of his eye, Ivan saw Vormoncrief step forward again. "Back off," Ivan snapped. "What is that, fast penta? It won't work on him, idiot. He's got a weird reaction to it, just like he had to your poison." Ivan spat the last word, and hunched again protectively.

Vormoncrief eyed him with distaste. "You're beginning to annoy me."

"Well, somehow I think that's your problem. Too fucking bad."

Vormoncrief made a derisive noise and stepped outside. He returned a moment later with a large . . . the only appropriate word Ivan could find was _goon_.

"Put Vorkosigan on the ground and go sit over there." Vormoncrief pointed to the far side of the cave. "And shut your mouth."

Reluctantly, Ivan settled Miles on the ground in as comfortable a position as he could manage. The cold stone against his face actually seemed to wake him up a little; he stirred again, and his lashes fluttered. One eye on the nerve disruptor and one on Vormoncrief, Ivan stepped carefully across the cavern and slid down so that his back was against the wall. At a sharp gesture from the goon, he placed his hands under his ass, and set to glaring ineffectively as Vormoncrief administered the second hypospray and dragged Miles into a sitting position. Miles slumped over, and Vormoncrief, with an impatient noise, grabbed him by the hair to pull him upright. Miles came abruptly awake with a pained yelp, and Ivan jerked. So did the goon with the nerve disruptor. Ivan forced himself to stillness.

Vormoncrief tapped the empty hypospray in his palm as he waited for the fast penta to cut in. Miles went slowly from slumping to curling in tightly on himself. He blinked rapidly, and his eyes, when they found Ivan, were horribly bewildered. Ivan wasn't sure if Miles knew him or not through the stew of exhaustion, fast penta, stunner discharge, antidote, and lingering symptoms. His breaths, puffing out into the freezing air, were increasingly rapid.

Vormoncrief wasted no time with the niceties of fast penta interrogation. "What are the secret entrances to the Residence?" he barked, looming over Miles with his hands on his hips.

Miles blinked up at him. "There's lots of 'em," he said. "One goes under the river, another from Vorhartung Castle, another from ImpMil, one from ImpSec Headquarters but it's half caved in, Gregor said. But you'll never find them, they're secret, don't tell, everyone's got a secret here, even buildings, but s'not a secret if everyone knows, like everyone knows there are _secret_ entrances to and from the Residence -"

"Stop," Vormoncrief said.

But Miles paid no heed, and his eyes, flashing crazily, were vaguely triumphant. He was sitting up ramrod straight now, shivering madly, and babbling through chattering teeth. "-and everyone knew about Gregor and said things and it wasn't a secret anymore, but we still were. S'not true, what they say about keeping secrets, 'cause a lot more than three people knew about us and they never said -"

Miles just kept right on talking, working himself into a sweat-soaked state of quivering loquaciousness, and no matter how many times Vormoncrief slapped him across the face, he just would not shut up. Vormoncrief visibly swelled with fury. Ivan wisely bit his own tongue to keep from saying, _I told you so_, and glanced covertly at his guard. The man was staring at the spectacle, mouth open slightly in helpless fascination as Miles's babblings veered off in a seemingly random direction and took a poetic, strangely festive turn.

"-'Twas night 'fore Winterfair and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse -"

"Enough!" Vormoncrief roared.

But it didn't matter how much Vormoncrief screamed and raged or even kicked, missing Miles's head by mere inches. Miles was nearly to the end of the lengthy poem, slurring his words through chattering teeth and a badly split lip, when he sucked in a sudden, sharp breath and his head snapped back, limbs going rigid.

Luckily for Ivan, his guard was too busy watching the interrogation to be doing his job, or he'd have been shot for sure as he lunged across the cave to keep Miles from smacking his head too hard on the stone floor. There was nothing to stick in his mouth to keep him from choking on his own tongue, so Ivan just held him as still as possible, one hand behind his cousin's head, and waited for the thrashing to end. It was a very bad one, he thought, at least as far as he knew these things, much more violent than he'd expected, and it seemed to go on forever. Or maybe it just felt like it.

At long last the intensity of the seizure lessened, until finally Ivan was left holding Miles's limp, sweat-soaked body. He stripped off his dress jacket and wrapped it around Miles. He looked up and met Vormoncrief's gaze, which was furious and frustrated and plainly shocked as hell. This was not what he'd bargained for, it seemed. The thought made Ivan bare his teeth in savage satisfaction. "Happy now?" he snarled.

"Fine then," Vormoncrief said shortly. "You," he barked at the goon. "Stand outside. Anyone tries to leave, shoot them. With the nerve disruptor, if it's him." He pointed to Ivan. "But if it's the mutie, use your stunner."

"Yes, my lord," he said, and followed Vormoncrief out.

Ivan sank back for a minute, and rubbed the back of his neck. He looked down at Miles, just fluttering back to consciousness. "Miles? Hey, come on," he said, slapping Miles's cheeks lightly. "You in there?"

"Urgh," Miles managed. "Ivan?"

"Yeah." Ivan expelled a long breath of relief. "You scared me," he said, checking Miles's pulse again. It was racing. "How do you feel?"

"Awful. Cold," Miles mumbled. "Sick." He swallowed and pressed his face into the floor, breathing deeply, until he finally lost the battle with his stomach. He rolled the other way and crawled the three feet or so to the corner, where he threw up. Ivan watched him worriedly, but decided trying to help would only make matters worse. Finally Miles dragged himself back and slumped against the rock wall, gray eyes watery and exhausted. "Where?"

"I don't know," Ivan said, relieved that, at the very least, the seizure seemed to have shocked Miles out of the worst of the fast penta reaction. Damn things had to be good for something. "We're someplace underground. Vormoncrief was behind all of it, the poison, the assassination attempt, everything. He's using you to blackmail Gregor into making _me_ Emperor, if you can believe it. Can you stand?"

There was a long silence. Then, "I don't think so. Sorry . . ."

Ivan sighed. "Don't worry about it. I'll take care of things."

"Okay," Miles sighed, leaning his head back. "Good." Ivan was glad he didn't ask _how_. "Was there a party tonight?" he asked instead.

"Yes. Everyone was there. You and Gregor did really well."

"Did you dance with Ekaterin?"

"Yes."

"I hope you weren't an ass."

Ivan smiled briefly. "I made her laugh. Twice."

"That's good. Tien didn't make her laugh. Tien made her cringe. Ass. She needs to laugh more. And smile. Be nice to her."

"I will. Everything's going to be fine. You're already better than you were. All we have to do now is get out of here."

Miles nodded listlessly. "Right." He sighed. "It's just . . . it takes so much work to get better. I'm tired, Ivan."

"Hey," Ivan said sharply. "None of that. Think about Gregor, and your great plan. You're going to have kids, Miles, and the two of you are going to be so obnoxiously happy together that it'll make everyone else nauseous. Think about that, Miles."

Miles didn't answer. He stared blankly off at nothing, but didn't fall asleep or lose consciousness. Ivan got up and paced to try and get his blood circulating. He paused, shifting from one foot to the other in his boots, studying the damp wall. He put his hand out and felt the familiar moist chill, a little slimy and very slick. It came to him suddenly in a wash of memories: the texture of the walls and the earthy tang in the air were familiar because he'd been here before.

"Miles," he said, "I know where we are." He turned around and saw Miles watching him with uncaring expectation. "We're in the caves in the Dendarii Mountains. Don't you smell it?"

Miles sniffed briefly. "Yeah."

"Do you remember spelunking here?"

Miles didn't answer for a long while. "Yeah," he finally said, unconvincingly.

Ivan paced the room briefly, looking for anything that might tell him where in the vast network of caves they were. "Do you recognize this place?"

"No," Miles said. "Sorry," he added after a moment.

"It's okay," Ivan said. He eyed the entrance, guarded by the goon, and bit his lip. Even if they got past the guard without being killed, there was no way for Ivan to know how to get them out. They'd always had a detailed map that Miles's grandfather had made during the Cetagandan occupation. By the time they'd entered the service and given the pastime up, Miles had known his way around quite well without the map, but they'd still never gone without it. And Ivan had never bothered to pay attention, because Miles had known what he was doing. How was he to know that one day both their lives would depend on it? Besides, for all he knew, this was some area they'd never found on their own. There were kilometers and kilometers of caves that they'd never explored.

"Okay," Ivan said, controlling his incipient panic. "Okay."

"What?" Miles asked.

"Uh . . . nothing."

Footsteps. Ivan tensed. Vormoncrief stepped in and trained a nerve disruptor on him. "Get up, Vorkosigan. We're going."

"You have to let me help him," Ivan said, as Miles struggled to stand on his own.

Vormoncrief frowned. "Fine. Don't make any sudden or unwise moves." Ivan helped Miles to his feet and kept one arm around him, though it meant bending over awkwardly. Miles clung to him briefly as he fought for balance, and then took a few hesitant, shuffling steps. Vormoncrief watched, mouth twisted in disgust. "Carry him," he said at last. "I don't have forever."

"What part of your cunning plan are you attempting now?" Ivan asked, juggling an armful of limp, shaking Miles as he followed Vormoncrief out of the cave. The goon brought up the rear; Ivan could feel the nerve disruptor as an almost physical presence at the back of his neck.

"I wouldn't be snide if I were you." They were walking up a long, sloping passage. They made two quick left turns, and then a right. The cave narrowed, and the blue glimmer of the cold light reflected eerily off the rough, damp walls. They were heading towards the surface, Ivan judged. The air was slightly less stale and chokingly damp now. They stopped abruptly, after having walked for only five or ten minutes. Vormoncrief ducked into a side cavern, and emerged with a portable comconsole transmitter. A very high tech one, Ivan thought, the kind that could make the signal untraceable if you knew what you were doing.

_He wouldn't dare_ . . .

"You're not going to contact Gregor face to face, are you?" Ivan asked incredulously.

"Shut your mouth, Vorpatril."

Ivan did. Fine, if that was what Vormoncrief wanted to do. The more rope to hang him with later. Even if ImpSec couldn't trace it, they could record it. And perhaps they'd be able to see something in the background that would clue them in on where they should look.

They walked for long enough that Ivan's arms began to ache. They were passing through a series of chambers that Ivan thought looked vaguely familiar - not that it really mattered, since wandering around in these caves unless you were damn sure of yourself was fatally stupid - when he suddenly heard voices up ahead. Several of them, young and male and loud. By the look on Vormoncrief's face and the fact that he immediately extinguished the cold light, they weren't anyone he was expecting. Vormoncrief stopped, plainly torn between going back, though there was no place to hide, and going forward, straight into whoever it was.

His hesitation made the decision for him. Four men came around the corner ahead, carrying their own cold lights, and stopped short at the sight of them. In the split second before all hell broke loose, Ivan recognized Claude Drade, the son of the Minister of Civil Defense, wrapped up nice and warm in winter gear with a stunner in his gloved hand. Then the goon fired a nerve disruptor blast, which deflected off the ceiling; one of Drade's companions returned fire, and Ivan dove for the floor, covering Miles's body with his own and praying to whatever gods listened to idiots like him.

"Urgh," Miles grunted.

"Shut up," hissed Ivan. Perhaps there would be a way to escape in the confusion . . .

No such luck. The firing ceased abruptly, and a hand closed over the back of Ivan's shirt. Someone with appalling strength hauled Ivan upright, and, seeing Miles curled up on the ground, swore colorfully. "I'd hoped I was seeing things," Claude said with a groan. Ivan saw Vormoncrief's goon, unconscious or dead, sprawled on the ground, and Vormoncrief sitting at stunner point, wincing and gingerly touching an ugly, rapidly swelling lump on his head.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Ivan demanded, looking up at Claude. He wondered if _Boy, am I glad to see you_ would be an appropriate response, but when Drade sighed heavily and gestured one of his minions over to pull them both up and keep a stunner on them, he decided it probably wasn't. _What the hell_?

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, bringing _Miles Vorkosigan_ in here?" Drade demanded, glaring at Vormoncrief. "You're going to bring all of ImpSec down on my head!"

"You won't last long once I'm in charge anyway," Vormoncrief sneered.

"Right," Drade said, rolling his eyes. "Whatever, old man." He turned, eyed Miles and Ivan, and gave an exasperated snort. "Lovely. Bring 'em along. We'll toss them in with Vorrutyer. They can keep each other warm."

_Vorrutyer_? Ivan scooped up Miles, who seemed to have drifted off into a doze, and obeyed the prodding of yet another weapon in the back. They left the goon where he was. Vormoncrief seemed entirely unconcerned about his fate. Ivan, observing Drade and Vormoncrief from the back, noted that, despite his flippancy, Drade seemed very tense. And Vormoncrief seemed . . . strangely silent. Probably due to the bump on his head.

Drade seemed to know exactly where he was going. They fetched up shortly in a dank little cavern, just the same as all the rest except it held a very old cache of camping supplies - leftovers perhaps from one of their trips, or someone else's. Drade turned unhesitatingly down a steep incline, and Ivan realized they were descending into one of those natural formations of nested caverns, each a little deeper and bigger than the last. The next two were empty, but the one after that was filled with unmarked barrels, as was the one after that. And the one after _that_ held a state-of-the-art chemistry lab.

_Oh. Oh, shit_.

"Business is booming," Drade said cheerfully to Vormoncrief. "In case you were wondering."

Vormoncrief flushed. "I'll roast you for this. There won't be a drop of this hell-concoction left on this planet when I'm done."

"Yes, please _do_ create a hundred and fifty more black markets. I'd like nothing better. Ah, Jean, I've brought you a few more guests." They had reached the last room in the apparent cul-de-sac. A man stood guard outside it. He straightened up as Drade approached, and eyed the three of them warily. "Company for Vorrutyer," Drade added. "I'm sure he'll be pleased. Don't worry," he added at the guard's dubious look. "I'll get someone to stand out here with you. Not that they should give you much trouble. That one," he nodded to Vormoncrief, "is just a useless old man. Mad, but harmless."

"We'll see how much harm I can do you when this is all over," growled Vormoncrief.

"The little one is quite incapacitated, as far as I can see. And the big one has to handle him."

"Claude," the guard said, staring at Miles, "is that . . . ?"

"Unfortunately, yes. I hope to have them all . . . gone eventually with no ill effects to us. But until then, they're going to have to stay here, at Chez Drade. I do hope you find the accommodations satisfactory," he added, mostly to Ivan. Waving his stunner, he herded them inside.

"Vorrutyer," he said, speaking to a lump on the other side of the dark cavern. No response. "I brought you some friends," he went on, as though the lump cared. "Enjoy each other. You might be here awhile." With that, Drade turned on his heel, and, after giving quick - and loud - orders to stun if need be, he left, his footsteps echoing down through the chain of rooms.

As soon as he was gone, the lump rolled over. Ivan's eyes widened as he took in the prominent black eye decorating Byerly Vorrutyer's usually impeccable complexion.

"Well, shit," By said.

Ivan could only agree.

*~*~*

Gregor paused briefly before the closed library door, steeling himself. Then he let himself in, nodding to Aral and Cordelia, and then Alys and Simon, and found he didn't know how to begin. "Thank you for being patient," he said at last.

"What did Inceri say?" Cordelia demanded, standing and crossing to him.

"It's . . . very confused," Gregor said. "It was dark and the agents were taken out quickly. We do know that they were stunning only." _No one is dead, yet_.

"What were they doing out there anyway?" Simon asked. "They should never have been allowed to leave the house."

"What else?" Cordelia pressed him.

"It seems Miles and Ivan weren't the only ones taken," Gregor said. "Boriz Vormoncrief is missing as well."

"Was he caught in the crossfire?" Aral said, frowning.

"As near as we can tell," Gregor replied. "Inceri said he'd been trying to talk to Miles all night about something. It was his bad luck that he'd finally succeeded when - well."

"Hmm," Aral said.

"What?" Gregor asked.

Aral shook his head, and whatever he might have been about to say was interrupted by Allegre's knock. "We've closed the space ports," he announced, entering and shutting the door.

Gregor nodded. "Do you think they actually might try to make it off planet?"

Allegre shook his head. "No, Sire. But it's a precaution we can't afford not to take."

"What next?"

"That . . . depends." Allegre paused and glanced toward the Count and Countess, who were sitting with Simon and Alys. They were gathered in the library, as far from the milling and confused guests as they could possibly get. "Do you want to make it publicly known that the three of them are missing?"

"There are some distinct advantages to that," Cordelia said after a short silence. "There isn't much mistaking Miles. If people were looking . . ."

"I doubt they've been taken anywhere so public," Allegre replied. "I was thinking more that if we make an announcement, then we might interrogate the guests. One of them could have seen something."

"It's fairly obvious already that something is wrong," Gregor said. "Do it."

Allegre nodded and ducked out.

Simon cleared his throat. "In a crowd this size, someone must have noticed them leaving."

"But would they have known what they were seeing?" Aral asked.

Simon sighed, seemed to tighten his grip on Alys's hand. "Possibly not." Alys herself was silent,   
sitting bolt upright with her full skirts draped artfully to the floor. Of all the old Vor traditions that she practiced, waiting for her son to come home safe was perhaps the oldest, and least familiar.

The stuttering conversation died. Gregor stared outside again. It was a freezing night. He hoped that wherever Miles and Ivan were, they were warm. He was still so weak, Gregor had no idea what sort of effect it would have on his recovery if he got sick now. Even a bad head cold would probably set them back, and a case of galloping pneumonia could be much worse, to put it mildly. Assuming they got him back alive. Gregor twisted his hands together.

A full hour went by. Pym appeared bearing tea. Gregor poured himself a cup and didn't drink it. The Vorthyses and Ekaterin came by, to let them know that Allegre was interviewing people and letting them go home afterward. Nothing had come up so far, but someone was bound to have seen something. Aral didn't voice his doubts this time, Gregor noticed. Cordelia asked them to stay and wait with them; Ekaterin appeared discomfited by the invitation, but she could hardly turn it down.

The tension in the room eased slightly after that. Gregor was reminded that, in addition to his expertise in engineering failure analysis, Vorthys had earned his Auditorship for his personable and comfortable demeanor, which was helpful in all sorts of situations. And his wife was soothing and practical, and very good friends with Cordelia. Ekaterin was . . . out of place. Much like himself.

She approached him quietly, eyes down, and switched the cooling cup in his hand for a fresh one. Her fingers were startlingly cold against the hot china. Gregor nodded his thanks, lifting the cup to his lips in reflexive politeness. The tea was hot and bitter with just a splash of milk; exactly as he liked it.

She lingered at the window with him, their backs to the room and the restrained, low-voiced conversation laboring behind them.

"It's cold out tonight," she said, not looking at him.

"I know," said Gregor, startled to hear his thoughts echoed.

They were reflected together in the dark glass, portraits in unexpected symmetry of cradled teacups and calm, remote expressions. Gregor had long ago mastered control of his face, even more so in moments of crisis, and he wondered when she had done the same.

"It's supposed to get even colder," he said, "and there's a storm coming just before dawn."

"His boots will soak right through in snow," she said, expression marred by a single, worried crease.

The door behind them opened, and Gregor turned to meet Allegre, distractedly thinking that Miles hadn't been wearing boots at all tonight.

"Sire," Allegre said, giving Gregor a semi-formal salute.

"Are you done with the guests?"

"Not quite. But we have something. Or someone, rather."

Gregor blinked. "Who?"

Allegre turned and silently beckoned Minister Drade in behind him.

"Anton?" Gregor asked, puzzled.

"Sire," he said, twisting his hands. Gregor, taking in his slightly hunched posture, his nervousness, the trickle of sweat at his temple, thought suddenly, _This is not an innocent man. But surely he's not a part of this_? He hadn't known Drade all that well personally, but they'd worked together on the eastside clean up. He liked the man.

"Anton, I suggest," Gregor said, after a loaded pause, "that whatever you have to say, you just say it. Because I'm very short on time and patience tonight."

"Yes, Sire. I - you see, I never meant for it to come to this. I didn't know it _could_ come to this. I didn't say anything, because I was trying to protect Claude. If I'd known, I would have told you, of course I would have -"

"Anton, _what_ is going on?"

"Sire, my son has been running a drug lab for months. The Jump Juice lab. I've suspected for some time that he was using it, maybe even selling it, and that he most likely knew where the lab was. I thought perhaps he was being blackmailed, because I just couldn't believe my son - but about a week ago I realized I was wrong. A bank statement tipped me off. I believe - I'm certain he's the main supplier on Barrayar. Sire, I have no excuse except . . . except I love my son. And I wanted to protect him."

Gregor let his breath out, stabbed with disappointment. "Would it surprise you to learn that I don't _care_ about the drug lab right now?"

"Sire, that's not all of it." Drade took a deep breath. "Two days ago Byerly Vorrutyer came to me and told me that he knew about Claude's business, and that he was into something much worse than drug trafficking. I don't know how Vorrutyer knew, but he did. He told me that Claude was in on some sort of treasonous plot, and that if I knew what was good for me, I would step forward now, before . . . anything happened. I meant to talk to you tonight, but I couldn't seem to get to you at the party. It wasn't the right time anyway, I thought. Stupid. And then General Allegre came in and said Lord Vorkosigan had disappeared, and I knew I had to come forward." He paused a moment, looking around him at the ring of silent faces. "The lab is in the caves in the Dendarii Mountains. I don't know anything more specific - I didn't want to know."

"Of course," Allegre muttered. "Why didn't we think of that?"

"I made sure you didn't," Drade said, quietly.

"The assassin was from Rashing Brook," Gregor said slowly.

Drade flushed. "I didn't think." He went to his knees, looking up at Gregor with miserable eyes. "I apologize, Sire. I take whatever punishment you see fit, and gladly." He looked away at last. "He's my son."

Gregor let out an exhausted breath. He couldn't deal with this part of it now, with justice so suddenly imperial and personal, and always falling to him. "Please take him into custody, General," Gregor said, after a moment spent surveying his - former - Minister of Civil Defense. Drade seemed to deflate as Allegre stepped forward to grip him firmly by the arm. "And locate Byerly Vorrutyer."

"Yes, Sire," Allegre said. He stepped out into the hallway and handed Drade off.

Gregor turned around. "Well," he said quietly. "So now we know where. That's . . . something."

"ImpSec will never find them in those caves," Cordelia said. "Do you remember hiding and watching Vordarian's men go in after us?" she asked him. "Group after group went in and didn't come back out."

"I remember," Gregor said. "But surely there are maps."

"Even so," Aral said, "it will be a very difficult thing. Claude Drade must know those caves extremely well by now."

"Miles could have found his way out once."

"Not now," Aral said grimly.

"No," Gregor agreed with a sigh. "Not now." He fell silent again. Aral was right. ImpSec men were predominantly urban. They would not be the least bit at home in a mountain cave system. It would be very stupid to send them in with no preparation.

"Are there people who know those caves?" Ekaterin asked suddenly. "I mean, people who live in the mountains must. Is it possible . . . " She trailed off uncertainly.

Gregor turned around, met her startled, wide eyes with his own. "Yes," he said. "People like Lem and Harra, they would know, wouldn't they."

"Yes," Aral said. He stood up, and Gregor hadn't known that the odd hunch to the Count's shoulders had been hopelessness until it was suddenly gone. "Yes, they would."

*~*~*

In a way, Ivan reflected, being held prisoner by Drade was an improvement over being held prisoner by Vormoncrief. There were blankets, for one thing, and even a small portable heater in the corner. Ivan shifted Miles over so he was closer to it, and swapped Ivan's much too large uniform jacket for a dry, roughly sewn wool blanket. Miles, who had said nothing for a long time, responded at least enough to curl in towards the heater. Ivan decided that he couldn't do much more for his cousin right then, and, one eye suspiciously trained on Vormoncrief, beckoned Byerly over.

"How the hell did you get involved in this?" Ivan asked quietly.

Byerly grimaced. "I got my signals crossed. You see, I knew about the drug lab and I knew about the plot, though only vaguely. But I thought they were somehow connected - I mean, they were sharing these caves, so they'd have to be, right?"

"Wait a minute, you knew about the drug lab?"

"Not until four days ago. I mean, I knew there was one. But Gaerard was always careful not to give details. He knew I didn't approve. Ever since he died, I've been trying to figure out who in his circle of friends was the supplier. I only just realized it was Drade - I mean, who would have thought? Anyway, when I realized where they were operating from, I remembered where the assassin had come from. It's right near here."

"How did you know that? It's not public information."

"We were all told to keep an ear out," Byerly said, and there was no need to clarify who _we_ referred to. "I started poking around. I didn't find much, but that thing about the assassin wouldn't go away, so I came up here about two days ago with a thermoscanner. I found the entrance that Drade's people use, and followed them in. Yes," he said, in response to Ivan's incredulous look, "I realize now just how stupid that was. I'm sure Miles would have a scathing critique for me if he could talk. Speaking of which, he looks like hell."

"Funny, being stunned and interrogated into having a major seizure, not to mention weeks and weeks of _dying_, will do that," Ivan said, glaring at Vormoncrief, who gave no indication that he'd heard. "I take it ImpSec doesn't know about your little adventure." It would be much easier if they did - but if they did, they surely would have done something by now.

"No," Byerly said. He shrugged. "I wanted . . . I don't know exactly. Revenge, I guess, for what happened to Gaerard. I don't agree with him," he said, nodding towards Vormoncrief, "but I understand, a bit. He cared about Gaerard too, and it was so hard watching him fall apart right in front of us. And I know what it's like to want to blame someone for it. I blame Drade. He blames the Emperor. There isn't that much difference, except mine is stupid revenge and his is treason."

"Did you suspect him at all before this?"

"No. I didn't think Gaerard's death had . . . undone him like this. If I had suspected anything, believe me, I'd have said something. Keeping quiet about the drug lab was one thing. Keeping quiet about the other . . . no."

"Does Vormoncrief know?" Ivan asked, very quietly. "About the two of you, I mean."

"No," Byerly said. "Gaerard always promised he'd tell him, but he never seemed to quite . . . get around to it." He looked away.

"So what else do you know?" Ivan asked.

"Not much. I didn't get the chance to poke around a lot before they found me." By grimaced.

"I can't help thinking it's a pretty big coincidence that both the Jump Juice lab and Vormoncrief's plot are being run out of these caves. I mean, I don't think that Vormoncrief had ever even been to Vorkosigan Surleau before tonight - it's not like he and Miles or the Count are very close. How did he even know about this place?"

"I think I know how, actually," Byerly said, brightening a bit. "It was almost by accident. Vormoncrief had Gaerard followed at some point, when he began to suspect that Gaerard was addicted to Jump Juice. Gaerard thought so, anyway, though he was awfully paranoid there for awhile. And they must have followed him here."

"So why didn't Vormoncrief say anything when they started looking -"

"Because he was already well into his own plans by then, and using the caves himself. If he'd run to ImpSec, he would have been exposed as well. They both had to keep their mouths shut for the other, in fact. That's my best guess, anyway. And I've had plenty of time to think about it, these last few days."

Ivan nodded. He glanced towards the cave entrance and saw that the first guard had been joined by a second, just as Drade had promised, making it two on two with Miles out of the game and Vormoncrief unlikely to help. And switching captors hadn't changed the essential problem, anyway.

"You don't happen to know your way around these caves, do you?" Ivan asked, without much hope.

"What do I look like, a Dendarii Hillman?" Byerly glanced down at his well-tailored, filthy town-clown suit. "Sorry. That's been at least as effective at keeping me here as the guard. In fact, I think they've been counting on it. They're lazy sods, those guards. And they like to sample the product."

"Do they . . ." Ivan said slowly, eyeing the back of the guard's head.

"What are you thinking?" Byerly asked suspiciously.

"I'm thinking that we don't have time to waste, waiting for Drade to get around to letting us go at his convenience - if that's what he has in mind." Ivan had his doubts - Drade _couldn't_ let them go, not now that they knew about the drug lab. He couldn't imagine Claude Drade, who he'd known at school and around Vorbarr Sultana, killing them in cold blood, but what other choice would he have, if he wanted to keep the location a secret?

"Don't be stupid," hissed Byerly. "Do you want to get lost and freeze to death under these blighted mountains?"

"Do you want to stay here and get shot at dawn?" Ivan retorted.

"I had a plan," muttered Byerly. "It involved a lot of fast talking, and absolutely no shooting. Maybe it wasn't a perfect plan, but I was going to get out of here."

"Yeah, well," said Ivan, and jerked a thumb at Miles, who seemed to have subsided into true sleep, or possibly just a faint.

"Yeah," sighed Byerly, scrubbing hard at his face. "How do you want to do this?"

"Uh," said Ivan, caught off guard. "Aren't you the ImpSec agent?"

"I'm an urban intelligence gatherer," said Byerly. "Not a secret commando. Aren't you with ops?"

"I plug positional data into tactical programs," Ivan hissed. "Sometimes, I get to pick which side is which color. Can you at least shoot?"

"Of course I can shoot," snapped Byerly. He paused. "Though it helps if the target is standing still."

"Okay, okay," said Ivan. "I'll take the one on the left, you take the one on the right."

"Sure," said Byerly, cracking his knuckles.

"Okay," said Ivan, getting his feet under him. "On thr -"

The goon on the right fell over. The quiet stunner buzz reached Ivan's ears only secondarily. _Thank you thank you thank you_, he thought, leaning forward eagerly and summoning an appropriate sarcastic remark for the belated rescuers.

But then the other guard was shouting and moving fast, going for his nerve disrupter instead of the stunner, and the knot of men boiling in the corridor weren't wearing security tabs or ImpSec eyes or insignia at all. _Oh_. Now _his Armsmen show up_.

Ivan jumped for the downed guard, and for the still holstered stunner. His hand was just closing around it when the back of his head exploded in agony, and lights pinwheeled behind his eyes before going out entirely. He slumped bonelessly over the unconscious guard, dimly aware of muffled thumps and curses in the spinning darkness around him. When he finally rolled over, determined that he wasn't going to throw up for a second time tonight, he discovered that the lights really had gone off. Which meant, Ivan sluggishly realized, that someone here had infrared goggles, and the rest of them were screwed.

But then someone was suddenly falling on top of him, and Ivan recognized his cousin's narrow shoulders. Ivan struck his already much-abused skull on the cold stone of the floor, and lay stunned for a moment. _Just give me a second_, he thought groggily, _and then I'll get up. Really_.

A second was too long. Miles gasped and then was hauled roughly away. Ivan jerked towards him, but grasped only empty air. A moment later there was the sound of a cold light cracking, and the blue light lit a circle around them.

Byerly lay a few feet away, struggling to sit up, but not looking as though he was having much luck with it. In between them was one of Vormoncrief's people, Miles dangling over his shoulder, one arm looped casually around Miles's neck while the other one held a stunner to his head.

"I do wonder if he'd wake up this time?" Vormoncrief asked rhetorically, rising from a safe position at the back of the cave. He snapped his fingers at a goon and received a stunner, which he trained on Miles. "Get up," he said in a disgusted voice. Ivan climbed shakily to his feet and leaned briefly on the wall. "If you try anything stupid, I'll stun him on max power. Or maybe just have Mika cut off his air and watch him choke like a fish. Move it."

He herded them out a side hallway that Ivan hadn't even noticed. The guard carrying Miles led the way. Ivan briefly considered trying to jump him, but Vormoncrief was right - he really had no idea what the effect of two stuns in four hours would be on Miles in his current condition. Besides, his head was swimming and it was all he could do to stand up and walk in a reasonably straight line.

"He threw a rock at your head," said Byerley, sidling a bit closer. "Sorry." He was limping, Ivan saw, and he seemed to be treating his right arm with care.

"It's all right," said Ivan. "We weren't going to get out, anyway."

At least Vormoncrief wouldn't kill them yet - he couldn't. And ImpSec might be along at any point. In fact, if he looked at it a certain way, ImpSec was already there, in the person of Byerly Vorrutyer.

Somehow, Ivan failed to find this comforting.


	16. Chapter 16

The sight of five Imperial aircars loaded with ImpSec agents landing in the village green would be enough to scare anyone, Gregor thought, watching as Lem, Harra, and two young children dressed in the Dendarii fashion gathered, gaping, on the Csuriks' front porch. Gregor hoped they would get over it quickly, but then, probably anyone whom Miles seemed to trust as implicitly as he did these people would be competent and levelheaded at the very least.

He restrained himself with an effort until Allegre was satisfied with the hastily assembled perimeter and opened the door. Gregor took the slope up to the porch at a near jog, feet sinking into the deep snow collected on the steps. He could hear Aral and Cordelia behind him. Alys and Simon, along with the Vorthyses and the Koudelkas, had remained at the house where ImpSec continued to interrogate guests, though Gregor doubted anything else useful would be learned. There had been no argument about where he should be, for once. Allegre was vocally unhappy, both at the prospect of relocating Gregor and at the idea of involving civilians in a secure search and retrieval operation. But his people weren't trained for this, and he knew it. Even scrambling a rough terrain unit from Vorbarr Sultana would take two hours, and they would still be faced with nearly useless tracking and communications instruments in the mountain. They needed guides.

"Sire?" Lem said, coming hastily down the steps to meet Gregor. "Count Vorkosigan? Is something . . ." He trailed off, glancing back and forth between them and the swarming agents. Sounding rather strangled he finished at last with, "Is something wrong?"

"Where's Lord Vorkosigan?" Harra added immediately, craning her neck.

Gregor glanced around swiftly and said, by way of an answer, "Please, may we come inside? We need to talk to you."

"Of course." Harra sent her two children off with a few low-voiced instructions. He managed a small nod to them as they passed, staring at him with wide eyes. This sent them scurrying away, glancing back over their shoulders every few yards until he was afraid they would trip over each other.

"Miles and Ivan Vorpatril were taken tonight from a party at Vorkosigan Surleau," Gregor explained as soon as they were inside with the door closed. He could hear Allegre shouting orders outside, preparing to run a full-scale search and rescue operation from a hamlet that was technologically about half a century behind most of Barrayar. "We have reason to believe that they were brought here."

"Here? Silvy Vale?" Harra asked, frowning. "Sire, no one here would -"

"No one thinks that, Harra," Cordelia interrupted gently. "But we think that they're being held somewhere in the cave system."

"We need people who know their way in and out," Gregor said. "I don't dare send ImpSec in alone - we'll lose people, and it won't do Miles any good."

"I know a fellow three villages over," Lem said slowly. "He knows the caves better than anyone."

"Give any names to General Allegre, please," Gregor said. Lem nodded and ducked outside. "There is one more thing," Gregor added quietly to Harra. "Miles was poisoned when he was stabbed. We thought he was going to die until we finally got the antidote just a few days ago. We administered it and he'll be fine, but he's still very, very sick. With the weather and whatever else might be happening -" Gregor paused and took a deep breath. "No one else knows. No one else can know. But I need someone in the search party to be aware."

"But - but we saw him - he was fine . . ." Harra said faintly.

"A temporary reprieve," Aral said gruffly.

"I'll tell Lem," she said, "and he can go with the search party, Sire."

"Thank you," Gregor said.

Half an hour later, ImpSec had managed to gather together four men, all over the age of sixty, who were unofficial experts on the cave system. Two of them were even retired from the military, which made Allegre stop twitching quite so visibly. Gregor attempted not to hover too horribly as they were outfitted in the Csuriks' living room with locating devices, wrist communicators, high-powered glow rods, and every other gadget that ImpSec thought might be useful. Allegre's hastily acquired technicians weren't terribly hopeful that the coms or navigational devices would consistently work very far underground, but it was worth a try. _We can navigate wormholes, but this damned mountain is too smart for us_. They would approach the caves on foot, Gregor and Allegre had agreed, so as to avoid drawing attention to themselves; the nearest entrance was about two miles north of Silvy Vale.

Within an hour, the search party had moved out. Gregor stared after them, wishing that he were on one of the horses forging up the snowy trail, into the headwind and the wet and the cold, and cursing every level-headed advisor he had for telling him in no uncertain terms that it was simply not an option.

"Tea, Sire?" Gregor turned and saw Harra holding out a cup and saucer - probably her best. He forced a smile for her and accepted. "They'll find them," she said. "Probably the people who kidnapped him are city folk, they won't know the caves. Lem will bring him back to you."

Gregor nodded. She watched him for another moment, and then went away. Gregor turned back to the thick, freezing darkness, eyes straining for the sight of lights coming up the trail, even though it was far too soon to hope for news.

Eventually Cordelia forced him to rest for a bit. He expected to lie awake, but the bed Harra showed him to - very apologetically - was comfortable, if narrow, and warm from the stove and a hot water bottle.

He woke to disoriented confusion, to find himself being gently shaken.

"Sire?" Allegre.

Gregor sat up very suddenly. "Are they back?"

"No, Sire. But a call came to you at the lake house. They're patching it through."

"A call?" Gregor frowned. "What time is it?"

"0300. Sire, it's Count Vormoncrief."

Instantly, Gregor came fully awake. "Vormoncrief? Has he escaped, somehow?"

Allegre grimaced. "We don't know, Sire."

Gregor nodded. There were exactly three options here: Either Vormoncrief had miraculously escaped his captors, they'd deliberately let him go, or they were making him deliver the ransom demands. Gregor didn't want to think about what that third option meant for Miles's well-being. "Can you trace the signal?"

"Not yet. We're working on it." Allegre stepped back and handed Gregor his jacket. He led the way into the main room of the small cabin, where there was a crowd of ImpSec agents clustered around a hastily set up secure comconsole. Cordelia and Aral hovered in the background; Cordelia reached out and lightly touched the back of Gregor's hand as he appeared. He nodded and swallowed. The agents parted to make way for him to sit in the comconsole chair. Duv Galeni, who was in charge of matters at the lake house, waited for him on the viewplate.

"Sire," he said.

"Duv. When did the transmission come in?"

"Approximately two minutes ago. It was nothing but static at first; we thought it might be a malfunction. He's using a portable set, but it's a very new model - we can't get a fix on his position."

"What did he say?"

"He simply demanded to speak with you, Sire," Galeni said.

He'd neglected an option, Gregor realized. Though surely even Vormoncrief wouldn't take this opportunity for a political powerplay. _What planet have you been living on for the past thirty-nine years, boy_? Gregor gritted his teeth. "Patch him through."

"Yes, Sire." Galeni disappeared.

There was a period of fuzzy grayness, and then the screen grainily resolved into Vormoncrief's grim, lined countenance. Gregor drew a deep breath, collecting himself before saying, "Count Vormoncrief. Are you all right?"

"I am perfectly well, _Sire_," Vormoncrief sneered. Behind him, Gregor heard several people inhale disbelieving breaths at his tone. "Your concern is touching, considering the circumstances."

"And what would those be?" Gregor asked. "I don't think We need to tell you that We are not in the mood for underhanded political maneuvering tonight. I'm not going to bargain with you for Miles's whereabouts."

"No," Vormoncrief agreed, "you aren't. Rather, I'm going to give you a glimpse of your fiance and then I'm going to tell you what I want. You are not going to speak, or I will kill him."

_You_? The rage was sudden and fierce. Gregor's lips parted, and then he bit down hard on his cheek. Vormoncrief watched his face closely, then smiled.

"Good boy," he said, and Gregor heard someone behind him make a sound of suppressed outrage. He thought perhaps it was Aral. For himself, Gregor was perfectly still and silent.

The angle of view changed, swinging around to show Miles lying on . . . it appeared to be stone. He was wrapped in a blanket, and looked truly terrible, his face gray and his lips white with cold. But he was breathing; Gregor could see the slight fog that formed above his lips whenever he exhaled. In the background, fuzzy though it was, he thought he could just make out a green blur that might be Ivan. He was still alive then, and might be able to help Miles. Gregor let out the slightest breath.

"There," Vormoncrief said as he reappeared. "Now, what I want is very simple. I want you to step down, and I want Ivan Vorpatril in your place. When you do that, I'll return Vorkosigan, and the two of you will leave Barrayar and the Empire." His smile twisted. "I imagine Athos might be to your liking."

A long silence went by then, while Vormoncrief clearly tested him, perhaps hoping that he would speak. Gregor firmly set his jaw and remained silent, but he had been told, by more than one person that his glare was among the more potent of the many weapons at his disposal. Vormoncrief didn't cringe as most people did, but Gregor fancied that he did blanche a bit.

Finally Vormoncrief said, "Good. I'll expect a public announcement within three hours. If I hear nothing, I shall transmit again and you can watch him die." The screen went blank.

The muscles of Gregor's face had locked up, and it took him several moments to speak.

"General," he said. "Find him. Execute him."

"Yes, Sire," Allegre said. He turned for a moment, consulting in undertones with one of his technicians. He met Gregor's eyes again, shaking his head. "No trace."

Gregor swore and stood. "Vormoncrief," he murmured, crossing his arms and frowning. "That's . . . unexpected." Vormoncrief had been on the short list, but Gregor had personally been betting on Komarrans masquerading as isolationists for their own ends. And it hadn't been a very short list, in reality. _You know you're doing something right when you have more enemies than friends_.

"I wouldn't have thought that he had it in him," Aral said. He sounded very strange and distant. "He was fiercely loyal during the War of the Pretendership."

"He's grieving," Cordelia said quietly. "That does . . . very strange things to people."

"There is one other thing, Sire," Allegre said. "We haven't been able to locate Byerly Vorrutyer."

"Ah," Gregor said. He had almost forgotten that he'd ordered Byerly found during the first frantic hours.

"Given the limited information we have," Allegre added, when no other reaction seemed forthcoming, "I'm not sure we will find him."

"No, I don't think we will," Gregor sighed. And then, very quietly, "Three hours . . ."

"We're doing everything we can, Sire."

"I know, Guy. I know." Gregor sighed again, and rubbed a thumb across his forehead.

"Harra made a fresh pot of tea, Gregor," Cordelia said gently. "There's nothing more you can do here for now. Come drink a cup."

He nodded. "If anything new comes in . . ."

"Of course, Sire." Allegre turned back to the comconsole. Gregor turned the other way, to follow Cordelia and Aral to the handcarved dining table, where a pot of tea and Harra waited. He caught sight of an old clock, a relic possibly leftover from the Time of Isolation. It was 0322. _Something_ would happen in the next three hours. It was not so long a time, not compared to four years, but it would feel like forever. And if something went wrong, Gregor knew that he would relive these hours again and again in an unending loop for the rest of his life, searching for a way things could have been different.

*~*~*

The cavern Vormoncrief had made the transmission from was much closer to the surface; Ivan could tell from the slightly fresher, though still very cold, air. Vormoncrief seemed content to stay there, with his guards stationed just outside the one entrance. Ivan didn't feel much up to escaping at the moment anyway. It was difficult to think past the pounding in his head and the roiling in his stomach. He made sure Miles was as warm and comfortable as possible, then leaned against the damp stone wall and closed his eyes.

"What are you doing?" Byerly whispered, creeping towards him.

"Trying not to throw up." Ivan said through gritted teeth.

Byerly reached up and tilted Ivan's head forward to inspect his battered skull. "You probably have a concussion." Ivan didn't bother to respond. They sat for some time, thankfully silent, with Byerly nudging him awake whenever he started to drift off. The fourth time it happened, Ivan became abruptly aware that Byerly wasn't the only thing that had woken him up, and that Vormoncrief and his guards had come to sudden attention. They were staring up at the ceiling, at a gap between the rocks where the air smelled freshest. Noises drifted down - not Drade, but perhaps his guards? Ivan bit the inside of his lip to try to clear the fuzziness from his head enough to make sense of the voices, which were surprisingly loud and clear through the funnel formed by the rocks.

". . . split up. Each group take a thermal scanner. Vaslav, take the right fork, Umeri the left. Keep your teams close, and be sure to set your markers as you go. The rest of you are with me."

"Communications will get worse the deeper we go," another voice said, in the authoritative cadences of a mid-rank officer. "I'll stay here to relay any updates to the surface."

"Right then," the first voice. "You heard the man. And remember, Lord Vorkosigan might not be in any shape to walk out under his own power."

Vormoncrief's back was turned. Ivan reached out, grabbed a rock, and hurled it at the wall at the same time as he shouted, "Hey! Down here!" with all the volume his headache would allow, and then some. Vormoncrief whirled around, stunner coming up. The voices above had ceased. "Hey!" Ivan managed one more time, and then the world went suddenly dark.

He woke while being dragged through a tunnel by one of Vormoncrief's goons. "He's awake," someone said, and hauled him up to his feet. He slumped against the wall, where his stomach tried and failed, painfully, to turn itself inside out. "Hold him up." Byerly's face, sporting a second spectacular black eye, floated into view. An arm slipped around his shoulders and took on some of Ivan's weight, supporting him as they began stumbling down the narrow cave corridor at an alarming speed, prodded along by the goons' stunners at their backs. One of the other guards had Miles slung limply over his shoulder again.

"Didn' work," Ivan managed.

"No shit."

"How long?"

"About half an hour. It took us awhile to lose the search party. That is what that was, right?"

"Yeah. Gregor must've . . . Miles all right?"

By threw Miles a worried glance. "He sort of came to when you started yelling - I think he actually knew what was going on. He did some shouting of his own, but Vormoncrief shut him up pretty fast. Stunned him," he added, at Ivan's glance.

"Hell," Ivan muttered.

They stumbled along after the bobbing cold light in Vormoncrief's hand. They almost ran him over when he stopped dead in the corridor, staring at the path which split off into three different directions. Vormoncrief peered down each darkened corridor for several long moments. Byerly propped Ivan up against the wall. He tried standing experimentally and was relieved when his legs held.

"Down this way," Vormoncrief suddenly declared.

"I don't think so, m'lord," the guard holding Miles said, nervously. He shifted Miles's weight slightly. "I think it's that one. It slopes down more, I remember that."

"Don't be stupid, it's this one. And who are you to question my orders?"

"My lord Count, I think he might be right," one of the rear guards put in. "And the last thing we want is to get lost."

"It's down _that_ corridor," Vormoncrief hissed after a moment of staring in incredulous fury at his guards. "And the next person who argues gets stunned and left behind."

It was obviously a fate no one was willing to risk. They set off, heading ever deeper into the caves. Ivan wondered what Vormoncrief was going to do when the three hours were up - how would he know if Gregor had made any sort of announcement? Not that Gregor _would_, of course; Ivan had not the slightest doubt about that. But Vormoncrief didn't seem to realize yet that his plan had no chance of succeeding - which meant that their immediate danger had lessened not at all. It was probably only Vormoncrief's sense of self-preservation that had kept them alive this long.

They had gone perhaps half a kilometer when Ivan first heard the sound of footsteps behind them. His heart leapt; perhaps they had not lost the search party after all. He said nothing. The guards, who obviously believed that they had gone down the wrong path and were now lost in the caverns, seemed nervous and preoccupied. Vormoncrief was busy ignoring their whispers. None of them seemed to notice that they were definitely being followed - until the corridor ended abruptly in a large room and a second coldlight flared to life.

"Well, this makes things easier," said Drade, as his goons loomed out of the darkness.

There was a single frozen moment, and then stunner fire exploded from all directions. Ivan hit the ground, dragging Byerly down with him. He lifted his head briefly to see where Miles was, and found that his guard had dropped him. He lay unmoving a few feet away. Ivan crawled on his belly towards his cousin, and pulled him across the wet cave floor behind some wooden barrels stacked in the corner. By the light of the flaring stunner fire, Ivan looked his cousin over quickly, and took his pulse. Sluggish and unsteady. He swore.

"You know what's in this stuff?" Byerly's voice said in his ear.

"What?" Ivan asked, moving over to make room for By.

"Jump Juice. I can smell it."

Ivan sniffed and realized that under the slightly burnt smell of the stunner fire, there was something else - sickly sweet, a tang that he felt at the back of his mouth. "Are you sure?"

"Gaerard used to come home reeking of it," Byerly said. "It was a real mood-killer."

Ivan eyed the barrels; theirs was only one of the many stacks around the room. He glanced toward the entrance, just a few feet off to their left.

"How flammable is that stuff?" he asked.

Byerly gave him a wary glance. "Pretty flammable, especially in its earlier stages." He paused. "Why?"

"Take Miles," Ivan instructed. "You should be able to get out."

"Ivan, what are you doing?"

"Taking care of both our problems at once. Go!" Ivan turned away, hoping Byerly did as he was told, for once. He peered around the barrels in the other direction, and saw that almost all of the guards were out for the count. The nearest body was about four feet away. Vormoncrief and Drade were across the room, ghostly pale in the flickering illumination of the rolling, forgotten coldlights. They had pulled out their nerve disruptors, Ivan saw, and had them trained on each other. The three remaining guards had given up targeting each other, and instead were crouched down behind the barrels of Jump Juice. A nerve disruptor blast ricocheting off the walls of the cavern would be indiscriminately lethal.

"You _murdered_ my _son_," Vormoncrief hissed.

"I did no such thing, old man. Gaerard made his own choices. Besides, I thought you blamed the Emperor. That is what this is all about, isn't it? You're going to 'save Barrayar'?" Drade paused. "Or maybe you're just a power-hungry bastard."

"_You_ are a murdering son of a bitch."

Ivan inched toward the unconscious guard. His stunner lay in his limp fingers, but it didn't interest Ivan. No, what he wanted sat unused and fully charged in its holster - the guard's plasma arc. He looked up; no one so much as glanced in his direction. He slipped it out slowly, and inched back behind the barrels. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Byerly creep out the entrance, straighten with Miles in his arms, and take off up the corridor.

Vormoncrief let out an outraged shout, swung the nerve disruptor and fired off a wild shot after them. The guards both flattened themselves to the floor. "_You_," he said, raising the weapon again to take quick aim at Drade.

It was the best distraction Ivan could have asked for. Before Vormoncrief could let off another shot, Ivan fired once, twice, and then in a continuous burst towards the back of the room with its stacks of Jump Juice barrels, and then threw himself towards the entrance. He landed hard on his shoulder, rolled over, and fired again. Three consecutive explosions rocked the cavern floor, and there was an almighty _whump_ and a sudden, acrid smell of chemical fire. Drade let out an incoherent yell. Ivan stumbled to his feet and ran like hell, following the sounds of Byerly's heavy, loping footsteps. He was halfway up the corridor before he realized his pants leg was on fire. He stopped to smother it with his jacket and continued on rather more slowly, limping from the stinging pain in his calf.

He caught up with Byerly and Miles where Vormoncrief had hesitated before. The entire corridor was illuminated by the flames, but the smoke was being funneled up as well, and periodic explosions rumbled through the cave floor. Ivan took Miles from Byerly before By dropped him, and staggered the few feet into one of the branching pathways, where he sank to the ground and gestured for Byerly to join him.

"What do we do now?" Byerly whispered.

"Now?" Ivan smiled grimly. "We see what happens. Hopefully those explosions will draw the right attention."

A few seconds later, Vormoncrief, face blackened and coat half burnt to a crisp, came panting up the corridor. He paused to dig a coldlight out of his pocket and cracked it. Ivan and Byerly inched further into shadow. Vormoncrief peered around, swore again, and continued back the way they had come. Ivan allowed himself to relax slightly. They would wait for two hours, he decided, and then perhaps venture out. But with no cold lights, that would be both extremely risky and very slow going.

The fire burned and burned, until Ivan began to wonder if it would ever run out of fuel. Smoke billowed up the corridor, making Ivan's eyes water and throat sting. He stood up once and went to look down the corridor at it; the conflagration was so bright it hurt to look at, like staring at the sun too long. Drade did not appear to have made it out and neither did the guards - Ivan wondered, rather numbly, if Vormoncrief had killed them, or if Ivan had done it himself.

"Well," Ivan said, returning to Byerly and Miles. He propped Miles up against his shoulder, trying to get him more comfortable. He was no longer as worried about warmth; the fire was taking care of that quite well. "I guess that solves the Jump Juice problem."

"I suppose so," Byerly said. His eyes were streaming from the smoke. He watched the flickering light with a blankly exhausted expression, but he did not get up to stare into the contained inferno. Ivan wondered what that was like, staring into the end fulfillment of a long, consuming obsession, the sort of focused effort that ate every thought and burned every erg of will. Then he realized with a shock that when they got out of this, he just might find out.

Miles stirred a few moments later, to Ivan's great surprise and relief. "Iv'n?" he mumbled, looking up at him.

"Shh," Ivan shushed.

"Wha' . . ?" He coughed, choking on a lungful of smoke. Ivan suddenly hoped that Jump Juice wasn't toxic when burned, though he was torn on whether to be worried about or hopeful for hallucinogenic fumes at this point. "What'd you blow up?" Miles managed.

"The Jump Juice lab, apparently."

Miles blinked. "That's . . . odd. How?"

"Long story. How do you feel?"

"I've been stunned twice, interrogated on fast penta, and had a seizure, how do you think?"

"All right, all right, it was a simple question."

"What's he doing here?" Miles asked, nodding toward By. But then, before Ivan could answer, he added, "Never mind. You seem to have things in hand. I'm going to pass out now, if it's all right with you."

"Go ahead," Ivan said. It'd at least spare them all Miles's running smartass commentary, he thought, and then was so unutterably relieved - it was so _normal_ to think something like that. Miles nodded, closed his eyes, mumbled something incomprehensible, and went limp.

Ivan looked up and met Byerly's eyes. "He's going to be okay," Byerly said. Ivan simply nodded.

Half an hour after Vormoncrief had disappeared, they once more heard footsteps - several of them - echoing from that direction. Ivan tensed, but then Lem Csurik's face appeared in the firelight and smoke, and all the breath went out of him. "Lem," Ivan said in relief, hauling himself to his feet and coughing painfully.

"Lord Ivan!" Lem said, appearing nearly as relieved as Ivan felt. He took in Byerly, Miles, and, with a quick glance down the corridor, the fire, while one of the people with him - an ImpSec colonel, it appeared, knelt to examine Miles. The other two hung back, watching curiously and muttering over the old fashioned compass one of them was carrying.

Lem, watching the colonel check Miles over, frowned and said, "He looks bad."

Ivan nodded. "He needs medical attention."

"So do you, from the looks of things," Lem said.

"Oh," Ivan replied, gingerly touching the back of his head. He'd almost forgotten about that. "Yeah, probably."

"Who is that?" Lem asked, staring at Byerly in suspicion.

Ivan gave him the shortened version of events, including an edited-for-civilians story of how By came to be involved. "Did you see Vormoncrief?" he asked when he wound down.

"No."

Ivan sighed. "Not our problem anymore. Can you call in now?" he added to the agent. "To tell them we're coming home?"

The agent shook his head. "I have to wait until we get up to the surface, m'lord."

"Then let's go. The sooner Gregor knows we're on our way, the better."

Lem carried Miles, for which Ivan was grateful. Even without the added weight, walking was becoming a challenge. They set off up through the caves, the thick, damp air, the smoke, and the climb stealing Ivan's breath. The searchers had left fluorescent silver paint markers at every turn, and the trip up did not take nearly as long as Ivan had anticipated.

"Not much farther now," Lem said. Ivan took a breath of almost fresh air, and thought he might cry for the pleasure of it.

Finally they rounded a last bend and saw gray dawn light spilling down the passage. "Thank God," Ivan whispered, taking several gulps of blessedly clean air, not even minding that it was cold enough to make his chest hurt.

He'd barely taken one step forward when he felt a cool metal muzzle at the back of his neck.

"Not quite," Vormoncrief whispered.

Everyone froze. "Put him down," Vormoncrief commanded, nodding at Lem. Lem crouched down and gently settled Miles. "This doesn't concern you," Vormoncrief added, looking around at the search party and obviously failing to note the presence of an ImpSec officer. "Leave now and you need not be involved."

No one moved. Except . . . there was a tiny flicker of movement. Ivan wouldn't have caught it, but he had looked automatically to Miles, to make sure he was all right, and he saw it, saw Miles open his eyes and stare up at Vormoncrief holding a nerve disruptor to Ivan's neck. Ivan felt his stomach go cold, but then Miles met his eyes. _Wait_, he mouthed, almost imperceptibly. Ivan waited.

"This is your last chance," Vormoncrief said. The ImpSec agent made a minute move toward his stunner, but Vormoncrief whipped his nerve disruptor towards him, finger tightening on the trigger. "Give me a reason," he whispered, so intent that he never saw his undoing as it flew through the air in a desperate arc.

Ivan saw it coming only a moment before it hit, just long enough to jerk out of the way. The rock glanced off Vormoncrief's head and he staggered sideways. Ivan ripped the nerve disruptor out of his hand and knocked him over the head with it. He went down, heavy and hard on the ground. Ivan looked up in time to see Miles sink back, pale from the effort, but with an expression of exhausted triumph so very Milesian that Ivan felt suddenly like there was a lump of something hard in his throat. Then his knees turned to water and he somehow ended up sitting on his ass without knowing how he'd gotten there.

"Are you all right, my lord?" Lem asked, kneeling beside Miles and apparently failing to notice Ivan's valiant, but rapidly failing effort to stay conscious.

"More or less. Mostly less. What are you doing here?" And then, when Lem started to reply, "Never mind. Have you seen Gregor?"

"Yes, m'lord. The Emperor is in Silvy Vale, as are Count and Countess Vorkosigan. We'll be there in about an hour."

"Oh," Miles said faintly, and then craned his neck around to look up at Ivan. "Ivan?"

"Yes?" Ivan said, wondering dizzily if the outlines of everything were supposed to be fuzzy like that.

"Don't let me pass out again, all right? Not until I see Gregor."

"Right," Ivan agreed, took an enormous breath, and heaved himself to his feet.

*~*~*

It was well past the three hour limit, and no call had come. Gregor didn't know what to think about that, but Cordelia had said, without much conviction, that no news was likely good news. If Vormoncrief's plans were going well, they would have heard from him. Gregor didn't disagree, but he also thought that Vormoncrief's plans collapsing might involve Miles cold and dead somewhere far beneath the Dendarii mountains.

The comconsole remained silent through 0600 and straight into 0700. The storm abated and then finally stopped altogether, making way for a day that promised to be clear and very, very cold. Gregor took his fifth or sixth cup of strong tea out onto the front porch, and looked out over Silvy Vale, blanketed in mist and snow. He knew, in an abstracted sort of way, that it was very beautiful in the winter morning, with the sun just beginning to cusp the mountains. But all Gregor could wonder, as he wrapped his hands around his warm mug of tea, was how much more he could take before his mind snapped.

"Sire?" Allegre said from behind him.

Gregor turned. No one had disturbed him in well over an hour, not even Cordelia. He hadn't heard the comconsole chime. "Yes?" he said, keeping his voice even.

"We've just had a transmission from the search party."

His grip on the tea mug tightened. "Yes?" he whispered.

"They have them and they're bringing them home. They'll be here in less than an hour."

Gregor had to reach back and grasp the porch railing behind him. Cordelia suddenly appeared in the doorway, stepped quickly past Allegre, and threw her arms around Gregor's neck in a triumphant embrace that also kept him standing. Gregor hugged her back and buried his face in her hair. He let out a shaky breath and then drew one in, painfully.

"How are they?" he asked, when he could speak again. He let Cordelia go slowly, and realized that he'd dropped his tea over the railing.

"Lord Vorkosigan and Lord Ivan will both need medical attention, Csurik said. Byerly Vorrutyer is with them as well."

"Byerly Vorrutyer?" Gregor asked, momentarily diverted. "What - never mind. Later." He took a deep breath, steadying himself. "We should be ready to airlift them straight to the hospital."

"Yes, Sire."

"And what about Vormoncrief?"

"He's unconscious and with them. We'll take him into custody immediately and fly him back to Vorbarr Sultana."

Gregor nodded. "Is there . . ." He trailed off. "Is there anything I should be doing?" he asked at last.

Allegre shook his head. "Not at the moment."

"Nor for the next few hours," Cordelia added firmly, with a stern look for Allegre.

"Yes, Sire. Take as much time as you need." He bowed himself out.

"I don't think I've ever heard those words in that order from him before," Gregor said, slightly bewildered. He turned around, looked up the path, and said, "Did you call Alys and Simon?"

"Aral is taking care of that. They're going to meet us at the hospital."

Gregor nodded. Cordelia covered his hand with hers. "It's over, Gregor," she said. "You can believe it this time."

He nodded and she went inside. He stayed there, gripping the railing and watching the path, for the next forty-five minutes, while the agents readied the aircars that would take them to the hospital in Hassadar. Several times he tensed, thinking he heard the sound of hooves crunching over the newly fallen snow, but each time it turned out to be a false alarm, his overwrought mind playing tricks on him. But finally, after what felt like an interminable wait, a shout went up from the agents stationed down the trail. Cordelia and Aral appeared in the doorway of the Csuriks' cottage, as Gregor stumbled down the steps and took off running.

_My God, what did they do to him_? Miles was wrapped in a blanket, propped up against Ivan's chest. Ivan, Gregor noticed vaguely, looked as though he were being kept on the horse by sheer force of will. Lem Csurik stood beside the beast, holding the reins. Gregor slowed down, out of breath but not from the run.

"Here," Ivan groaned. "Take him, my arms are dead."

"Yes, please," Miles said, opening his eyes and sliding easily from the horse's back. He felt like nothing at all to Gregor, his negligible mass infinitely lighter than the leaden weight Gregor had felt pressing down on his shoulders and chest for the past few hours - past few weeks, more like. "Ivan almost fell off twice on the way back," he informed Gregor wearily. "We should really take him to the hospital. Are you all right?"

Gregor had no idea how to answer this simple question. He found suddenly that speaking was altogether quite beyond him. He was just too . . . he didn't know what. Too relieved, too grateful, too disbelieving, too _exhausted_ to say anything or do anything, other than hug Miles to him and wish that everyone would leave them alone for the rest of their lives.

"Hey," Miles said, curling his fingers into Gregor's hair. "I'm fine."

"You might not have been," Gregor murmured into the scratchy wool of the blanket enveloping Miles.

"True," he said. "But I am. I can even walk, I think, if you'll let me down." Gregor did, carefully steadying Miles until he didn't think he'd fall over. It was then that Gregor glanced up, and remembered that Cordelia and Aral were there as well, standing back. The look in Aral's eyes was almost . . . ravenous. The two of them stepped forward as one, Cordelia covering her mouth with one hand and reaching for Miles's shoulder with the other.

"M'lord, Sire," Allegre prompted, after a respectful few moments. "The aircars are waiting."

"Yes," Gregor said. Miles seemed to be supporting himself well enough for the moment, so Gregor turned, waving off an agent and helping Ivan to dismount himself.

"_Now_ he's awake," Ivan muttered, swaying on his feet until Gregor steadied him with a hand on his elbow. "Typical. Bloody typical, I tell you."

"Let's go," Gregor said, urging him forward and reclaiming a place at Miles's shoulder. They went up the path together, slowly, Aral and Cordelia flanking them. They paused several times for Miles to rest, but he refused any suggestion of being carried with a mulish glare that made Gregor want to grin quite foolishly. By the time they reached the aircars, Miles was plainly exhausted, and had barely enough energy left to thank Lem and Harra for their help before crawling inside and allowing Ghale to administer an almost redundant sedative.

It was only then, safe in the aircar with the heater blasting and medical types fussing over Miles, that Gregor was able to lean back and realize that his heart was still beating much too fast. He closed his eyes against Cordelia's concerned gaze, and took several deep breaths. _Everything will be normal now_, he thought, and then wondered what that was. He couldn't remember normal anymore, he couldn't imagine that things would just be as they once were - and of course, they wouldn't, really. Miles had a long recovery in front of him, even more so now. But still. _What now_?

And, like a whisper in his ear, he heard Miles say softly, "Let's see what happens."

He almost laughed.


	17. Chapter 17

There was a shock of clean, cold air as the door of the aircar swung open and Ekaterin climbed out behind her aunt and uncle. The sky was a brilliant blue today, the air unusually clear. Beneath them, over the lip of the hospital roof, she could see Hassadar laid out, splendid in its coat of fresh snow. It looked like an elaborate Winterfair treat, she thought, covered in white sugar frosting and displayed in the window of one of the upscale bakeries she always admired but never patronized.

The medical smell of the hospital stung unpleasantly after the freshness outside. Commodore Galeni was waiting to escort them. The wing was cleared of all other patients but was by no means deserted; everywhere she looked there were ImpSec agents, including General Allegre himself seated at the comconsole in the nurses' station.

". . . had a rough first twenty-four hours," Galeni was saying. "But he's doing much better now. And we finally got the Emperor to go get some rest a few hours ago."

"How are the Count and Countess doing?" Aunt Helen asked.

"Good, I think. They spent last night at the Hassadar Residence instead of here at the hospital, and they look much better for it."

"And . . ." Ekaterin hesitated minutely, but they were all looking at her now. "How is Lord Ivan?"

Galeni grinned suddenly. "Cranky. Everyone is calling him a hero, and he hates that. Heroes can't be innocent bystanders."

She nodded, deliberately ignoring the eyebrow her aunt raised in her direction.

The Count and Countess did indeed look much better. The Countess's smile was not stretched and thin, but genuine and relaxed. The angry lines around the Count's eyes had eased; he looked once more like the formidable but benevolent old man Ekaterin had found him to be before Miles's illness.

To her surprise, the Countess sent her in to see Miles first. She started to protest, but Miles's mother put a stop to that by saying simply that he'd asked for her. Ekaterin gave up and went in, taking a few seconds at the door to gather her wits and courage.

The room was dark, lit only by the green lights from the machine monitoring Miles's vitals and a dim, bedside lamp. Miles lay on his side, very small in the hospital bed. His eyes were closed, though the Countess had said that he was awake. He looked absolutely ghastly in the green light; the bruises on his face had reached the yellowing stages at their edges, but were still dark purple in their centers, and they stood out horribly against his pale skin. Ekaterin took a step toward the bed and whispered, "Lord Vorkosigan?"

He opened his eyes and grunted, pushing himself up on one elbow. "Ekaterin," he said, smiling, which made him look even worse - but she was glad to see it all the same. "Good. Mother said you were coming."

She sat in one of the bedside chairs. "Yes, my aunt and uncle are here too."

"Ah," he said, fumbling with the bed controls. His hands were encased in thick, medicated gloves to treat frostbite, and Ekaterin silently took over the task for him. "Visitors. Good," he said, nodding his thanks.

It didn't sound quite . . . genuine. "Would you rather we didn't -" Ekaterin started to ask delicately.

"No, no," Miles replied immediately. "That isn't what I meant at all. I just . . ." He sighed. "I've been having these horrible headaches."

"These things do take time."

"Time," he sighed. "Yes. Don't have much of that before the betrothal."

"You have some. Enough for you to start feeling better."

"Not just me. Has Gregor finally gone home to rest for a bit?"

"That's what Commodore Galeni said."

"Good. He wouldn't leave, and it's not like I didn't want him here, but he needs . . ." He trailed off, so Ekaterin didn't find out what the Emperor needed, though she thought she could guess. He stared into the middle distance for awhile, until at last he shook himself. "I'm sorry. I get . . . lost sometimes, still."

"It's okay," she said. "But I should probably go - there's a whole line of people who want to see you."

"Oh," he said, slumping a little. "All right."

She was about to turn away when he reached out suddenly and grasped her hand. "One more thing. I almost forgot. Go see Ivan, okay?"

"Oh," she said uncertainly. "I -"

"I think he really wants to see you, but he's not going to say so because, well, he actually does have two brain cells to rub together, all appearances to the contrary. And he just saved my life. Please go see him?" Miles smiled - guilelessly, she would have said, except she knew better.

"Okay," she said, mostly because it didn't seem like he was going to let her go until she agreed.

In the hallway, Ekaterin hovered uncertainly, wondering how to ask where Lord Ivan's room was without drawing unwanted attention. She finally asked one of the staff, who pointed her to the room two doors down from Miles's. She glanced over towards the others, but they all seemed sufficiently occupied to not notice if she disappeared briefly.

She thought at first that Ivan might be sleeping. He was half-sitting up in his hospital bed, but his eyes were closed. There were alarming, yellowing bruises on his face as well, and she could see that patches of his hair had been shaved to make way for the surgical glue sealing his head wound. She moved his discarded and mostly uneaten lunch tray so she could sit in the bedside chair. He opened his eyes as she seated herself, and blinked at her in . . . perhaps it was astonishment.

"Madame Vorsoisson," he said, clearly caught off guard.

"Lord Ivan," she greeted, discovering a smile ready to hand. They looked at each other for a moment, and then away. Ekaterin cleared her throat. "I came to . . . to tell you how much I admire - it was very brave, what you did."

To her astonishment, the tips of Ivan's ears turned red. "I did what I had to do, nothing more."

"Which seems a perfect definition of heroism to me. But I won't argue with you. I'm sure everyone else already has."

Ivan shrugged, shook his head, and winced. "Could you pass me the bottle of pills next to my lunch tray? The blue ones, please. Thank you." He took two.

"How are you feeling?"

"Sore," he admitted. "And I've been having some nasty headaches. That bastard Vormoncrief - sorry - knocked my head around a few too many times."

She frowned in sympathy. "What . . . what's going on with Vormoncrief, anyway?" she asked. "They've been very quiet about that part of it on the holovid."

"They don't really know yet," Ivan said. "Or at least no one's told me. He's in ImpSec's custody, of course. And . . . well, I imagine eventually he'll be executed. He can't be tried until the Council of Counts reconvenes in the new year, though."

"Ah," she said faintly.

The conversation ground to a halt upon this rock for several awkward moments until Ivan said, "Um, if you were . . . I mean, if you don't want to be here, you don't have to be."

Ekaterin frowned. "Why wouldn't I want to be here?"

"I mean, if you were somehow forced . . . or coerced . . . into being here . . . Miles can be a manipulative bugger, even - make that _especially_ \- when he's flat on his back. He seems to have gotten this idea in his head -"

"Yes, I know," Ekaterin said. "He wasn't very subtle."

"I . . . see." Ivan wasn't looking at her anymore. He was picking at his light blue hospital blanket instead. Ekaterin let him fidget uncomfortably, out of some perverse desire to see what he would say to her if she let him ramble. "Um . . . well, I feel I should tell you that you're of course under no obligation to - to even tolerate my presence, much less . . . well. You get the idea."

"I'm starting to," she said. She suppressed a smile. "Lord Ivan, are you bringing a guest to the betrothal ceremony?"

"I. Um. No. I haven't thought that far ahead. I've had a busy few days."

"Yes, of course, I understand." She tilted her head to one side and this time couldn't help smiling. "Do you understand me?"

"Um."

_Oh for heaven's sakes_. "So much for your reputation," she said, gentling her teasing tone. He looked so bewildered. "I was told - by multiple people on many occasions, I must say - to look out for you, that you were much too smooth for your own good."

"Usually I am," he said, a little desperately. "But, er, I got hit on the head rather hard recently . . ."

She laughed. After a moment, so did he, gingerly.

"Well," she said at last. "I have an invitation in my own right, so I might as well do the asking, since you don't seem to be up to it. Would you be my guest to the Emperor and Lord Vorkosigan's betrothal ceremony?"

He blinked at her. "You did hear me when I said you weren't obligated to do anything you didn't want to?"

"Yes. And I assure you, I am quite capable of refusing people - I've gotten all too good at it, in fact." She was dizzily uncertain about when that had begun to eat at her. When had _no, never_ become _well, perhaps_? Sometime during the long night vigil, waiting for word of rescue or tragedy? Or had it been earlier, in the even longer stretch of weeks as she had watched him play lifeboat to the sinking Vorkosigan ship?

"Then . . . yes. Thank you, Madame Vorsoisson."

She took a deep breath. "Ekaterin, please."

He smiled at her, slowly. The bruises on his face made it a rather grotesque version of his usual charming smile, but she returned it all the same. "Ekaterin," he repeated. "Then no more of this 'Lord Ivan' business."

"Agreed. Ivan." They smiled at each other.

A few minutes later Lady Alys and Simon Illyan looked in on Ivan, and Ekaterin excused herself. She wondered, while waiting for the others to finish visiting with Miles, what she had done. She had promised herself that she would always be so careful, for her sake and for Nikki's, that she would never again make them vulnerable. She would not give herself away to stave off emotional starvation.

But she'd had four years now. Four years in which she had proven that she could and would make her own way. She was not going into this a nae twenty year old with no resources of her own. Whatever happened would happen on equal terms. She would have it no other way.

*~*~*

Ekaterin went back to Vorbarr Sultana with her aunt and uncle the day after their visit to the hospital, and life slowly returned to normal. She read her way through the small mountain of texts she'd checked out of the university library and worked on the overwhelming task of organizing her final project.

She was frowning - scowling - at one of her textbooks on a dreary, gray afternoon three days after her return when the comconsole chimed. She was relieved to abandon her dense reading for the moment to go answer it. Her aunt and uncle had taken Nikki out so she could study, and the house was almost too quiet.

It was Ivan. She wasn't surprised. Uncle Vorthys had spoken to the Emperor and relayed that the Vorkosigans had returned just that morning, Miles having been released from the hospital yesterday. He was still on bed rest, Uncle Vorthys had said, but doing much better. She hadn't really thought about it, but some part of her had expected - hoped, even - that she might hear from Ivan soon.

"You look much better," she said, once they had exchanged pleasantries and she had inquired about Miles. The bruises were fading, and the pain lines between his eyes and at the corners of his mouth were not so deep, for the most part.

"Thank you. I feel much better. I, um, feel I should apologize for how dense I was the other day."

She waved the apology away, smiling. "Not necessary. Blunt force head trauma can do that, I hear."

"Yes, well. I hoped I could perhaps make it up to you with dinner. Tonight?"

She hesitated. _Come on. This is how you break a habit. Or start a new one_. "Yes. Tonight would be fine."

He took her to one of the most exclusive restaurants in Vorbarr Sultana. The food was excellent, she had to admit, and the wine even better, but she felt rather discomfited sitting in such an overtly high Vor venue. She reminded herself that her best dress had been more than good enough for numerous parties at Vorkosigan House, a more exclusive venue than any restaurant, and tried to force herself to relax. Ivan made easy and amusing conversation and neither of them made mention of recent events. Ekaterin became aware, as the evening progressed, of an unfamiliar, but not unpleasant, lightheadedness. _Oh. Is this what people mean_?

They were making dessert selections when Ivan suddenly froze, then grimaced.

"What's wrong?" Ekaterin asked. He was glowering at something over her shoulder. She refrained from craning her neck around to see what it was.

"Nothing," he said. He signaled suddenly for their waiter. "But I think we should go."

She blinked, and now she did glance over her shoulder. The man Ivan appeared to be glaring at sat innocuously at another table, alone, a glass of wine in front of him. He did not appear to take notice of either of them staring at him. She turned back and saw that Ivan was paying the bill. She thought about insisting on paying her share, but he seemed to be suddenly in a very foul mood, and she didn't want to upset him further.

He kept looking over his shoulder as they walked to the groundcar, his ImpSec agents on either side of them. Their footsteps echoed in the underground garage. She said nothing until they were in the backseat of the car, the agents seated up front with the driver.

"What was that about?" she asked at last.

He grimaced. "The man at the next table over was one of Vorbarr Sultana's more irritating holovid reporters."

"Oh," Ekaterin said, nonplussed.

"I'm sure he got a recording of us."

"I didn't see -"

"That doesn't mean anything. You have no idea how many times they've taken holos of me without my knowledge." He sighed. "I chose that restaurant because they're usually very good about protecting the privacy of their clientele."

"It was a lovely dinner," Ekaterin said carefully. "And frankly, I don't know what they could say. It's not like we're doing anything wrong."

"I know. I just didn't want . . . never mind. I should have known better. I hope this won't cause problems for you."

"Well," Ekaterin said after a moment, "perhaps you had better come in and meet Nikki. If it does show up on the holovid - which you don't know it will, perhaps the reporter was just there having dinner himself " - Ivan made a derisive scoffing noise - "it would be best if he had met you."

Ivan suddenly looked even more uncomfortable. "I . . . hadn't thought about that. All right."

Nikki seemed only suspicious, rather than outright surly and rude. He gave Ivan monosyllabic answers to his questions about school and didn't linger any longer than necessary, but he seemed more unnerved than anything else. Ekaterin was relieved. She really had no idea what to expect from him these days; he was so often moody and secretive. On the other hand, he had asked about Lord Vorkosigan with more than polite concern, which gave her hope that he was just going through the usual adolescent self-centeredness and would come out a decent and honorable man on the other side.

Ivan stayed for coffee with her aunt and uncle. She walked him to the door, where he apologized again, and then kissed her hand before wishing her a good night and turning away rather shyly. She touched the back of her hand where his lips had brushed before she realized what she was doing and then shook her head at her own foolishness.

The pictures showed up on one of the holovid channels the next day. It was an unpleasant sensation to have something so private on display, though the holos were not completely unflattering. But the real problem was the comconsole calls from her brothers that came as a result.

"Really, Kat," her brother Hugo said. "He might be the Imperial Heir, but I've not heard good things about Vorpatril personally. He's supposed to be a bit of an ass."

"Hmm," she had replied noncommittally. "Is he? I seem to have heard people calling him a hero lately."

"Well, yes," Hugo admitted grudgingly. "He was abducted with the Emperor's . . . man, wasn't he? But that doesn't make him a good match for you." His mouth twisted unhappily, and Ekaterin became belatedly aware of the unpleasant undercurrents here. What was more distressing, she wondered: Ivan's vaulted and alarming social status, surely too much for her, or the company he kept? When, exactly, had her family become quite so painfully provincial in her eyes?

She was suddenly very impatient with the conversation. "No, it doesn't. What makes him a good match for me is that he's honorable and kind. He makes me laugh and he'd be a good role model for Nikki." Well, she certainly hoped so, anyway. "And maybe, Hugo, you should stop worrying so much about what _they_ say, whoever _they_ are, and pay a bit more attention to what _I'm_ saying!"

Her brother, apparently stunned into silence, said nothing for a moment. "I didn't mean to upset you, Kat," he said at last. "You do have the right to, um, go around with whomever you like. You are a grown woman."

"Thank you for remembering," she said, perhaps a trifle too tartly.

He hesitated again. "We just . . . we want you to make good decisions."

"Like marrying Tien was a good decision?"

"Tien was . . ." There was a longer pause here. Ekaterin waited, curious as to how he'd describe her first marriage. She had never spoken openly to him about it, but he must have known _something_. "We thought at the time that Tien was a good match for you. We thought he would make you happy, Kat. But we didn't force you into anything."

She sighed. "Of course not, Hugo. But you'll understand if this time I want something more than just 'a good match.'"

To her immense satisfaction, he'd had nothing to say to that.

She'd barely gotten her concentration back enough to begin composing the introduction to her final project's accompanying paper when the comconsole chimed again. This time it was Ivan, calling to make sure she was all right. She assured him she was until he finally seemed to believe it, made arrangements for him to come to tea with her and Nikki in three days' time when he had a miraculous two hour block free in his pre-betrothal schedule, and signed off again. She stared listlessly at her first paragraph for approximately five seconds before deciding to fix herself a cup of tea.

She had barely sat down, her cup of steeping tea in hand, prepared to work for at least an hour come hell, high water, or comconsole calls, when the thrice damned thing chimed yet again. She growled and, after only a brief hesitation, answered it.

To her surprise, it was Miles, whom she hadn't heard from since his return from Vorkosigan Surleau. Her understanding from Ivan was that they had all been thrown headlong into the last stages of planning the betrothal. She hadn't expected to see him before the ceremony for just that reason, in fact. But there he was, looking . . . if not well, then at least on the way. And he sounded better, clear and coherent, even if all he was doing was reissuing his invitation to have lunch with him at Vorkosigan House.

"They're not letting me out of bed very much," he said apologetically, "but I'd love to see you. We could talk about . . . things."

_Things_, indeed. It took her a long time to finally re-focus after that, though the comconsole stayed mercifully silent.

Miles sent Pym to pick her up, despite her protests that she could just as easily get an autocab. The Armsman was prompt and smiling; they chatted about their respective offspring and avoided all mention of heavier topics. He showed her up to Miles's room, bowed her in, and went to see about lunch.

Miles sat on the made-up bed, staring up at the ceiling. She stopped in the doorway as a sense of overwhelming déjà vu came over her. But she paused only for a moment, because he turned at the sound of the door opening and smiled suddenly. She returned it helplessly, remembering that it was one of the first things that had made her love him: When he smiled at her, she couldn't help but smile back. It was a reflex.

"Madame Vorsoisson. You look lovely, as always," he greeted her. She blushed, and shook her head. He waved her closer, stretched up to kiss her cheek, and then gestured her into a waiting armchair. The bedside table had been laid out with fine linen and china for lunch.

"You seem . . . better," she said, unwilling to lie and say that he looked well when he didn't. He was still much too thin and pale, and his hands trembled.

"It's early in the day yet, and I took some stimulants not too long ago." He frowned, rather grimly. "It's going to be a long recovery."

"But you're feeling better?"

"Oh yes," he said. "Well, I could hardly feel worse than I did a week ago." He waved a dismissive hand. "But enough of that. I'm tired of telling people how I am. How are you?"

"Very well, thank you. I've been trying to make some progress on my senior project, but there have been more than a few distractions."

"I see," he said in a mischievous tone. "Would Ivan be one of those distractions?"

She couldn't stop her lips from quirking up. "Perhaps."

"I had my reservations at first," he said honestly. "I've known Ivan longer and better than almost anyone, and . . . well, he's always been a bit of an idiot. But he seems . . . much changed."

"He's a hero," she said, carefully.

"Hmm," he said. "Ivan's actually done heroic things before, or at least things that most people would say were heroic: he just didn't let it affect him. Or let it get out, actually. He didn't have much choice this time, but . . . no, it's more than that."

Ekaterin shrugged. She was relieved when the food arrived and she didn't have to answer. She steered the conversation onto other things for a time, dropped the Emperor's name, and watched as Miles smiled helplessly this time. Then she listened, charmed, as he complained for several minutes about the more traditional elements of the ceremony, and Lady Alys's defense of the Admonishments to the . . . Bride.

"She says they're _traditional_," he said through a mouthful of salad. He swallowed. "And we're breaking tradition quite enough, she says." He snorted, wiped his mouth, and pushed his plate away, though at least half his food remained. "Like she'd sit there and let anyone admonish _her_."

Ekaterin thought that only the bravest and most thickheaded soul would dare admonish Lady Alys, and then only at his peril.

Gradually she realized that Miles was growing whiter, his smile more strained, his conversation a little more stilted. The lunch lay mostly polished off and forgotten on the bedside table. She was trying to figure out how to excuse herself gracefully when Pym arrived to clear the dishes and offered her a ride home. She smiled her thanks and rose. She hesitated for a moment, but then decided not to question the impulse, and leaned over to kiss Miles on the forehead.

"Keep getting better," she said firmly, and turned away.

*~*~*

"Take them off."

Aunt Alys pursed her lips. The Imperial Tailor frowned. Gregor sighed. Miles glared.

"Lord Vorkosigan," the tailor - Miles couldn't remember his name at the moment, and he didn't much care - said diffidently, "this _is_ the fabric we agreed upon."

"Oh yes," Miles said.

"And it is a lovely suit," Gregor assured him.

"WITH RUFFLES! _I_ do not wear _ruffles_! What do I look like, a peacock?"

"No, my lord," the tailor said.

Lady Alys pressed her lips tightly together. "Well, it was difficult to design a flattering suit when you weren't available," she said, exasperated nerves at last beginning to show through her usual calm. "I admit it does look a bit . . ." she inhaled delicately, an unpleasant word hovering visibly behind her lips. Miles had to work hard to suppress his contributions. "Please remove the jacket ruffles, as quickly as possible."

"That's what I've been saying," Miles grumbled.

"But, m'lady," the tailor began.

"Just do it," Alys said in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Yes, m'lady."

Once the tailor had gone, ushered out by Lady Alys, Gregor said, "You'll look very handsome in the suit, you know."

"I'm sure," Miles sighed.

"The color is very good for your eyes."

"Yes, yes. Thank you," Miles added, almost as an afterthought. "It's not the suit. It's just the ruffles."

"Which will be gone in time for the ceremony tomorrow," Alys said, sweeping back in. "I have his assurances."

Miles nodded in satisfaction. "Anything else?"

Alys consulted her list. "I think that was it. Provided the weather holds, there should be no problems." It had been a lovely Winterfair, with just enough snow to make things festive and not enough to cause holiday cheer-destroying transportation problems. The forecast for tomorrow was clear after more snow overnight, which would make the Imperial Residence, decorated to within an inch of its life, look like a fairy tale castle.

"Perhaps . . ." Gregor hesitated. "Perhaps Miles and his parents should stay overnight in the Residence," he suggested.

"Hmm," Lady Alys said. She tapped her rolled up flimsy against her palm. "I think . . . no. I think that we should stick with the original plan. We want to maintain some semblance of decorum, after all," she said, with only a touch of long-suffering patience.

"I seriously doubt that anyone is concerned with my virtue at this point," Miles said.

"You would be surprised." Miles didn't want to ask what she meant by that. He figured it would only play havoc with his blood pressure.

Gregor walked Lady Alys down to her waiting car and driver. Miles lay back on the pillows that had been piled high to prop him up for the meeting, and listened to the small sounds of Vorkosigan House on a lazy Winterfair afternoon. His father and mother had gone out to lunch at one of Vorbarr Sultana's more romantic locales, then they were meeting Mark at the shuttleport. The rest of the household appeared to either be resting or going about their duties quietly, with deference to their convalescing lord.

Except, Miles thought, for Ma Kosti. He could hear her banging pots and pans around in the kitchen from all the way up here. He winced. Combining his household with Gregor's was proving to be something of a challenge, and though that wouldn't really be a problem for six more months, certain . . . issues had come up with the betrothal itself. Specifically, the matter of who would cook. After a great deal of debate and diplomacy, it had been decided that Gregor's cook would provide the betrothal dinner itself, while Ma Kosti would take care of the dessert. Considering the guest list, this was no small responsibility, but Miles suspected that Ma Kosti felt she was getting the short end of the stick.

Gregor was several minutes longer in returning than Miles had expected. When he finally appeared, he kicked off his shoes and crawled up on the bed next to Miles, wrapping his larger body rather protectively around Miles's smaller one. Miles smiled at him.

"Did you get waylaid for more taste tests?" he asked.

"How did you know?"

"You have some icing right . . . there." Miles leaned in and licked it delicately off the corner of Gregor's mouth. Gregor made a small noise and kissed him, fingers walking slowly up Miles's spine. They lay like that for a while, though Gregor's time was short. Finally Miles pulled away and rested his head on the pillow, his forehead touching Gregor's.

"Who're you meeting with?" he asked quietly.

Gregor sighed. "Byerly Vorrutyer."

"Ah."

"I don't know what to do with him," Gregor said in exasperation. "Really, I should fire him altogether."

"Except he was instrumental in saving my life."

"Yes, exactly. Except for that." Gregor frowned. "On the other hand, he knew things he should have reported."

"Yes . . . but I think you might want to bear in mind that he was grieving. He was thinking about justice, not about duty. Which doesn't make it better, but . . ."

"True," Gregor conceded reluctantly.

Miles shrugged. "Knock his IS rating down a notch or two -slap his wrist and call it even. That's what I would do. But then, I've been known to, ah, play a little loose with the rules myself. Except I was usually so far away, no one ever knew about it."

"You'd like to think so, wouldn't you?" said Gregor, grinning. "I think you just feel sympathy for someone so committed to keeping his commanding officers out of the loop. In any case," he continued before Miles could protest, "on the other side of the coin, we also have the team who recovered the antidote."

"Promotions?" Miles suggested.

"Yes, of course. And their pick of galactic assignments, since they blew a big, smoking hole through their cover on Jackson's Whole. But I feel like I should do more, especially for that poor fellow who lost his arm."

"What's his name?" Miles asked. He had heard about the agents only in the most general terms before; he supposed he probably met them the night of the party, but he had no memory of it. He had very little memory of that night at all.

"Alexis Avalos."

"They can't do anything for him?"

"Well, a prosthetic, naturally, but he'll never go back to field work. Allegre is trying to find him some sort of deskwork, but from what I've gathered, he'd almost rather take a medical discharge."

"I can sympathize," Miles said. "I went to . . . great lengths to avoid being stuck behind a desk."

Gregor grimaced. "I remember."

"But perhaps . . ." Miles said after a moment of contemplative silence, "if it were very interesting deskwork . . ."

"Such as?" Gregor prompted.

"Well . . . Imperial Consort is a big job, isn't it? And I'm an Auditor as well. I haven't asked for a secretary before because my assignments have been a bit sporadic, but now . . . yes. I think I'd like a personal secretary, if you don't mind, Gregor. And I think Captain Alexis Avalos would be ideal for the job, if he is agreeable."

"That . . . might solve many problems all around," Gregor said, slowly starting to smile. "I'll ask him what he thinks." Gregor glanced at his chrono. "I should go soon. I didn't want to leave before your parents came back."

"Gregor. I'm perfectly fine. Pym is here, and unless Mark's shuttle was delayed, they should be back pretty soon."

Gregor sat on the edge of the bed to put his shoes on. "Are they . . . doing better?"

Miles didn't have to ask whom he meant. The tension between his parents during his illness had not escaped his notice. "I think so. I don't know. Neither of them is talking to me about it."

"Probably they don't want you to worry."

"Probably. And I'm not, really."

"I think your father is just trying to make things up to her. He's been remarkably pleasant to me, too."

"Well, he was a bit of an ass. Even I knew that," Miles said matter-of-factly. He rubbed the back of his neck where a headache was beginning to build.

Pym appeared then, bearing a tray full of pills, so they didn't say anything more. Miles swallowed everything he was given like a good boy and kissed Gregor good-bye. Gregor gripped his hand briefly and was gone. The next time they would be allowed to see each other, Miles realized with a rush of pleasure, would be at the overly-chaperoned betrothal ceremony itself . . . followed by the party . . . followed by the bonfire at midnight. Miles slumped down in his bed, his pleasure somewhat dampened by his anticipatory exhaustion. The two weeks that had passed since Ghale had administered the antidote really had not been long enough for him to regain his energy. Not that he'd expected to be back to normal, exactly, but he had thought he would make more rapid progress than this.

But his scores on the cognitive tests were much closer to his norms now, and even though he had bad moments, they were occurring with much less frequency. The headaches were still a problem, but those could be medicated. And as he had told Ekaterin, just about everything was better than it had been a week ago.

Miles slid down under the covers. The din of Ma Kosti's work in the kitchen was comforting, and so were the other, quieter sounds of Vorkosigan House slowly getting back to normal. He closed his eyes and drifted off.

*~*~*

"Has he been asleep the entire time?"

"Since the Emperor left."

Miles stirred and winced. He cracked his eyes open and saw his mother standing beside the bed, speaking to Pym. "M'ther?" he managed.

"Ah, there you are. Thank you, Pym." She sat down on the edge of his bed, studying him critically. "And how are you feeling today? I didn't get the chance to ask you this morning."

"Mmm. Better, I think."

"Good. Are you up to seeing your brother?"

"Of course." She helped him sit up, and then stepped outside. Mark appeared, and she smiled in maternal satisfaction before closing the door quietly behind her.

The two of them looked at each other for a long time. "Sorry you had to make the trip for this," Miles said at last. "It's not exactly what we'd planned."

"You really have to stop stepping in front of oncoming knives, you idiot," Mark said. The harshness was belied by a slight quaver in his voice and the ironic twist of his lips.

"I'll bear that in mind for next time," Miles said, returning the shaky smile. He finally extended his hand, and Mark shook it warmly. "How was the trip?"

"Long, as always," Mark said.

Miles nodded in sympathy. "Well, welcome home."

Apparently, Mark didn't know how to respond - because of the label or the sentiment, Miles wasn't sure. Finally he just said, "Thanks."

"I hope I didn't disrupt your semester too much."

Again, Mark seemed at a loss for words. "I'd think that would be the least of your worries right now," he said at last.

Miles shrugged. "Actually, everyone else is taking care of the important stuff for tomorrow. All I have to do is show up. I'm glad you made it in time, though."

"I - I was worried I wouldn't. Make it in time, I mean."

"Ah," Miles said. "Yes. Well." He shifted uncomfortably.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better. Much, much better."

"Good."

"Did you get my message? I know you were in transit by then."

"I . . . yes, I did. It scared the hell out of me, I hope you know. You looked worse than you did after your cryorevival."

Miles frowned. "I hadn't meant for it to scare you. I meant for it to reassure you. I didn't want you thinking that you were going to have to take up the job of Lord Vorkosigan the moment you set foot on Barrayar."

Mark let out a long breath. "I know. And I'd like to be able to say that it hadn't even crossed my mind, but it was . . . a thought I was having."

Miles nodded. "Ivan, too. It's okay, you know. I spent a lot of time thinking about the mess I might leave behind, trying to figure out how to fix it. Everyone else spent a lot of time apparently trying _not_ to think about it, and pretending like I was the only one who mattered, when I just wasn't."

"Well, you're going to be fine."

"Yes, I am."

"I'm glad."

"Me too." Miles took a deep breath, and decided that the two of them had had enough of that. "How's Kareen?"

"She's wonderful, of course." Mark smiled for the first time. "She sends you her love. She wanted to come, but she just couldn't get away."

"Is your wedding date still on?"

"So far." Mark nodded resolutely. "She'll be done with school by then."

Conversation turned to lighter topics for a time. Miles listened to Mark talk about Kareen and their wedding plans, their booming bug butter business, life on Beta Colony . . .

"Mmph," Miles said, pushing himself up sleepily when he realized that Mark was getting up to leave. "Sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep on you."

"It's okay. We'll have time later."

"Right," Miles said, sinking down into the covers as Mark let himself out. "Time," he repeated to himself, staring up at the ceiling. Once, alone in the depths of the night after they had found out that the poison would be fatal but before he had become too ill, he had made a list in his head of all the things he would never get to do. _Marry Gregor_ and _have children_ had topped the list, of course. But _stand on Mark's wedding circle_ was there as well, and that had hurt. He and Mark had a strange relationship, he knew, not exactly like brothers - something else, something unique. He wanted to be there when Mark got married, because it would be . . . it would be a confirmation of all the things that Mark had worked so hard to make for himself. He had made himself a whole human being - somewhat odd, yes, but whole. And mostly healed. Miles had wanted to celebrate that with him and Kareen.

_And I will_, he thought with pleasure. _Because I have the time_.


	18. Chapter 18

Miles tried to remind himself of his sappy reflections from the night before as he arrived at the Residence the next day, but he found it extremely difficult when faced with a spate of last minute betrothal nonsense. His mood was helped not in the slightest by the splitting headache he'd woken with, which the usual painkillers had done nothing to alleviate.

"I can't take any more of those, I had some an hour ago," he told Ivan irritably when he offered Miles the bottle. "They're only any good when I take them before it really starts, and I woke up with this one." He leaned his head on his hand and rubbed his eyes.

"You need to eat something."

"If I eat, I will throw up," Miles said bluntly.

Ivan quieted for a moment. "That bad?"

"Yes."

"It's probably stress."

"Don't know why you would think that," Miles retorted. "My life is tranquility itself right now."

Dr. Ghale bustled in then, shone a light in both of Miles's eyes, and told him to take a tranquilizer and lie down for two hours.

"I don't _have_ two hours," Miles snapped. "I'm supposed to meet with Lady Alys, and then I'm supposed to meet with Allegre, and then I'm supposed to dress, and then I have to - I just don't _have_ two hours today!"

Dr. Ghale nodded and mmm-hmm'ed sympathetically, steadily preparing a hypospray all the while. Miles was just beginning to suspect the absent but overriding authority of Mother, or possibly Gregor, when Ghale turned and calmly pressed the hypospray against the inside of his bare arm. Miles yelped indignantly, but Ghale merely steered him towards the couch. "Two hours," he said.

"But Aunt Alys and Allegre . . ." Miles protested, already feeling groggy.

"I'm sure your Second can handle everything. Am I right, Lord Ivan?"

Ivan gulped, but said, "Um, sure."

"Yeah, right," Miles protested. But dammit, his brain was fogging up, and while his head hadn't stopped hurting, he didn't care as much. Two hours . . . he could spare a couple of hours . . .

He woke to his father gently shaking his shoulder. "Time to dress," he said.

Miles sat up, blinking blearily. "What's . . ."

"The betrothal's today," his father explained patiently. "You had a bad headache this morning."

"Oh. Right."

"Is it better?"

"Yes. Much."

"Good. Ivan and Gregor are still with Allegre, so I've been sent to help you dress."

"C'n dress myself," Miles grumbled. He eyed the suit, still in its garment bag. "Did they take off the ruffles? They better've taken off the ruffles."

They had, in fact, taken off the ruffles, but Miles hadn't realized what an obscene number of buttons there were. His father helped him with those, or it would have taken forever. Then he was forced to sit and be pinched, prodded, poked, and plucked for another hour and a half, by the end of which he was _considerably_ grouchier. But then - finally - he was allowed out of his suite in the wing of the Residence farthest away from Gregor's rooms - as though their virtues could be violated by mere proximity - to be herded off to the Glass Hall for the ceremony itself, miraculously on time.

_Just don't let me fall over. That's really all I ask. Really_.

It was not a good thing, Miles thought, that he could see himself in the mirrors that lined the aptly named Glass Hall. He'd been avoiding mirrors of late, and with very good reason. He looked pasty and almost emaciated; the suit had needed to be altered at the last minute for more than just the ruffles. So he tried not to look, and also tried not to think about the hundreds of people, standing in concentric circles around them, craning their necks for a glimpse of him and Gregor - not to mention the millions of people watching the first Imperial betrothal ever broadcast planet-wide on holovid.

_Gregor_, he thought suddenly and with relief, _look at Gregor_. Gregor, in his parade reds and blues, looked handsome and fit and imperial as he stood across from Miles, with Kou and Drou and Henri Vorvolk flanking him. Someone must have hit him with a sleep-timer the night before, because the smudges under his eyes had faded to mere shadows. Gregor wasn't looking at anyone but Miles, with an intensity that made a faint blush creep up Miles's neck. He managed a small smile for Gregor's sake, and Gregor returned it, crossing one hand over his chest in the old, secret way.

The betrothal was thankfully brief, as Barrayaran Imperial ceremonies went. Miles's parents stood on either side of him, subtly ready to support him if he needed it, but his legs remained sturdy throughout the symbolic exchange of gifts and then the - Miles gave a mental snarl - Admonishments to the Bride, which, after much debate, had been renamed simply "the Admonishments." They had been rather heavily edited with an eye to gender, especially in the section on the Duty to Bear an Heir. Miles tried not to either frown or smirk too openly, lest someone suspect that he took these things with anything less than complete seriousness. The fact that _Henri Vorvolk_ was the one doing the admonishing did not help matters, but Miles told himself that he was probably imagining the snide note in Henri's voice - Henri was almost never snide. He didn't have enough personality to be snide.

Gregor was starting to frown at him. He must be scowling - or maybe slumping. Or both. Miles straightened and tried to wipe his face blank. Gregor gave him a look, but then it was time for them to join hands - through Lady Alys - and say their promises, and there, that was much better. It was actually . . . quite nice, to stand up in front of all of Barrayar, and declare without reservation or explanation that they loved each other and planned to do so for the rest of their lives. Miles hadn't expected it to mean much to him - after all, they had made these promises to each other a long time ago. It would be at most, he had thought, a very satisfying step on the long journey he and Gregor had begun four years before. But he realized, as he listened to Gregor make his promises in his strong, clear voice, that it was a great deal more than that. They had found each other, and that was something worth celebrating.

And celebrate they did, for a very long time, with food and dancing and drinking. Miles got his dance with Ekaterin early in the evening, before Ivan bore her off permanently, and then danced a few slower waltzes with Gregor, who was watching him like a hawk. Then, sensibly, he sat for a while, watching everyone else and greeting people who came up to give him their congratulations and, usually, inquire not-so-subtly after his health.

His mother appeared, flushed from dancing. She sat down next to him, a glass of wine in her hand. "How are you doing?"

"I'm fine," Miles said, only just managing not to roll his eyes. He nodded toward the dance floor. "I don't think I've seen Da dance like that in years."

Her eyes sparkled. "He's trying to make up to me, I think." She smiled and shook her head. "I don't know that I've ever seen your father . . . exert himself in quite this way. He didn't have to work very hard to win me over in the beginning, after all. Part of me thinks I should tell him that he's not in nearly as much trouble as he thinks he is, but I'm rather enjoying myself, so I think I'll keep quiet for now.

Miles grinned. "Gregor said they talked."

A shadow crossed her face, though Miles didn't entirely understand why. "I know." She paused for a sip of wine. "How is Gregor?"

Miles didn't answer for a moment as he watched Gregor dance a mirror dance with Tatya Vorbretten. "Happy, I think. But tired. Still reeling."

"Of course. But," she added, a steely note in her voice, "you will both be on that wedding circle if we have to pour you there."

"I sincerely hope that won't be necessary. I just don't think he really believes it yet, if you know what I mean."

"I do," she said, nodding. "Sometimes, I don't quite believe it. I've had nightmares where . . ." She trailed off. Her eyes were suddenly far away. "It will just take some time, that's all," she finally finished. "You'll feel better, Gregor will stop being so afraid, and the nightmares will fade."

"I think today helped," Miles said. "Actually exchanging vows and promises." He took a deep breath, checked his energy level, then held his hand out. "Dance, m'lady?"

He danced once with his mother, and then decided that it was time to stop. Past time, apparently. The strains of music and buzz of voices were beginning to merge into one nearly incomprehensible sound in his ears. Miles blinked rapidly, trying to focus through the welter of varicolored gowns and house uniforms, their glittering variety suddenly overwhelming. He lifted a hand and pressed absently at his forehead, then took his time winding through the crowd, and, with care and a little guile, he made it to the promenade doors. It was really too cold to leave them open, but heat lamps had been liberally scattered across the patio and down the steps into the garden. Miles slipped out, inhaling deeply and hoping the chill snap of the air in his chest would wake him.

It was nearly deserted outside, despite the heaters, but Miles had taken no more than three steps when he heard the door behind him open and close again.

"You're hovering," he said, turning as he spoke. The words caught Gregor mid-step, and he paused, frowning. Miles saw now that he wasn't alone. The man with him wore parade reds and blues, and was eyeing Miles with a fixed, searching look. "Ah," Miles said, suddenly making the connection.

"Miles, this is Captain Alexis Avalos. Captain, Lord Auditor Miles Vorkosigan, my betrothed."

"My lord," Avalos said, bowing formally.

Miles shook his hand. . "So," he said as the three of them made their way over to a low stone bench. "I take it Gregor told you about my offer." A heater pulsed comfortably at their backs like a low fire, but Gregor, who had shown a remarkable ability to fuss recently, made Miles accept his light jacket as well.

"Yes, my lord."

"Are you interested?"

Avalos hesitated. "Yes, my lord, but I don't think . . ." He trailed off.

"You don't think you can do the job?"

"No, my lord, that's not it."

"Then what?"

"I don't think that I . . . am the sort of man suited for such a position."

Miles crossed his arms over his chest; he could see already where this was going. "What sort of man is that?"

"My lord." Avalos held his hand out. It was a very good prosthetic, Miles thought - he'd hardly noticed when shaking it.

"Because you're a crip, then?" Miles asked, his tone deliberately light.

"A Greekie crip," Avalos muttered, almost under his breath.

"I see," Miles said. "Well, you're going to have to come up with better excuses, because I don't accept either of those - for, I should think, obvious reasons."

Avalos flushed, stammering out a mingled apology and protest. The prosthetic jerked spasmodically in his lap, and he shoved it hastily inside his jacket. _Oh, Captain. You'll learn to live in your skin again one day_.

Miles gave him the stern, searching look that he'd perfected as Admiral Naismith. "If you don't want the job, that's one thing. I won't force you to take it, of course. If you think you can't _do_ the job, that's a different thing, and I think you'll find otherwise. But if you won't take it because you think other people won't like it . . . well, Captain, that's a very silly thing."

Avalos nodded slowly, hooded eyes fixed on Miles's face.

"Take some time," Miles said. "Think about it." He smiled. "I know what I'd do."

"Thank you, Captain," Gregor said. Avalos stood, bowed, and made his way back into the ballroom, leaving the two of them alone and out of sight for the moment.

Miles sighed, tried to speak, then gave it up and just slumped sideways into Gregor. The fine fabric of Gregor's dress tunic was warm against his cheek. Gregor's heart beat steadily under his ear.

"Are you tired?" Gregor's voice vibrated pleasantly in Miles's skull.

"I'm exhausted," Miles said, sitting up. "How about you?"

Gregor nodded, and they sat in silence for several moments, listening to the subdued backwash of sound from the ballroom. Miles's head was growing heavier and heavier, and he let it rest against Gregor's arm with a sigh.

"Wake me in time for the wedding, will you?"

Gregor shook with a quiet laugh. "Oh," he said, something that could have been whimsy in his voice, "you won't sleep for half a year, will you? I'd miss you terribly." The lightness wavered at the end, trembling finely.

Miles looked up at him. Gregor's face was lit from below in an eerie, whitish-blue reflection off the ice and snow blanketing the gardens. He looked waxen, nearly gaunt. "No," Miles said gently. "I won't. So much to do, you know. At the very least, I have to appear at the Council in a week." It would be the first session of the new year, and the first order of business was the grim task of trying a Count on charges of high treason. Miles bit his lip while he considered biting his tongue. He was tired enough to fall asleep right here, and what the hell could he say, after all? "And on that topic," he began anyway.

Gregor stiffened. "It shouldn't take long," he said evenly. "They won't ask you many questions, I'm sure."

"Hmm," said Miles. "Probably not." The procedure for this sort of thing was simple and to the point. The Council would hear the facts of the case, and Vormoncrief would be allowed to answer for himself. The Council would vote on a verdict and, as a courtesy, leave the matter of sentence to Gregor. Barrayarans, Miles had discovered as his experience of galactic legal culture grew, did not believe in the idea of recusal. _Here, the closer you are, the more right you have to get blood on your hands_.

"So," said Miles softly. "You will have him executed, then?"

Gregor drew back a little. He inhaled through his teeth, then nodded.

Miles frowned. "Do you really want to see him every day, slowly wasting away under your decree?" he asked curiously. "Or, better yet, say we're not quite so barbaric about it and we simply remove his head from his shoulders - do you truly want to stand and watch, perhaps even close enough to smell the blood?"

Gregor's face shivered, then froze again. "A little bit," he said starkly. "A little bit, yes I do."

Miles believed him. "Well," he said quietly. "I guess that's it, then."

Gregor blinked. "That's . . . it?" he repeated.

"Yes," said Miles. "You wish it, so he dies."

There was a long moment of silence, then Gregor . . . squirmed. "You would plead for his life?" he said, voice suddenly rough around the formal words.

Miles mouth twisted wryly. "Well," he said. "At least one person should, and I don't think anyone else will dare."

"I have no mercy for him," Gregor said. "As he had none for you. He chose to -"

Miles lifted a hand. "You don't need to enumerate his crimes to me," he said. The hand moved, without conscious thought, to fruitlessly try and smooth away the headache gathering at the base of his skull. "When I was killed," he said slowly, "I don't remember this, of course, but I was told later - we were in the middle of a firefight. Elli took command and she ordered Taura to clear a way for us. And Taura did, in her own inimitable way." He picked idly at his trouser seam. The sleeve of Gregor's jacket flopped over his hand, overlarge but warm. "She ripped out their throats," he continued. "That's the only time I think anyone's ever been . . . executed, in my name."

"He kidnapped Ivan as well," Gregor said. "My heir. And he as much as killed the bastard who stabbed you. And the retainers he dragged down with him, not to mention his poor wife . . ."

"Yeah." Miles nodded. "I know. And an example must be made, I realize that. My point was more that . . . the decisions we make in the heat of battle are about survival. The decisions we make after, when we're still half-mad with the fear and the sickness and the anger . . . those are still about the fighting, but it's already over."

Gregor was perfectly still. "I've not been in battle," he said at last.

Miles reached up and delicately traced the shadow beneath his eye, still vivid even after several days of sleep-timers. "No?" he asked softly.

The prolonged moment was shattered by the intrusive buzz of Gregor's lapel com, followed seconds later by Miles's own. They let out simultaneous breaths, part exasperation and part relief.

"It's nearly midnight," Miles said, checking his chrono. "We've got to get out to the bonfire. The newsvid people will be annoyed if things get delayed." He heaved himself to his feet with an effort, then turned and laid both hands on Gregor's shoulders. Gregor eyed him, still tense and more than a little wary. "Hey," said Miles softly. "I kept my promise."

Gregor blinked, then dipped his head. "I did notice that, yes," he said softly.

"It was a lovely ceremony," Miles said. "If more than a little ridiculous. I . . . didn't expect it to matter this much, though. I mean, we've already made our own promises."

"I expected it," said Gregor.

Miles caught him under the chin and kissed him, a slow reclamation. Gregor made a soft, wanting sound and yielded, body and mouth suddenly pliant to Miles's every touch. He lingered a moment longer than he had intended, then a moment more, before pulling away.

"Come on," he said, sigh puffing out in a frosty cloud. "They're waiting for us."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [По ком звонит колокол](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6448714) by [jetta_e_rus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetta_e_rus/pseuds/jetta_e_rus)




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